Perfectly Imperfect
by rxcknrollrebel
Summary: Dr. Leslie Etheridge has never had friends. Or a boyfriend. Or a social life. Or a love life. But when she becomes an intern at Seattle Grace, she meets a group of friends- and a boy- who teach her the real meaning of friendship and love. (George x OC) (Meredith x Derek) (Alex x Izzie) (Cristina x Preston)
1. Episode 1: A Hard Day's Night

**A/N This is my first Grey's Anatomy fanfic, so please go easy on me, but, that being said, I would like some feedback. As I always say, constructive criticism is always welcomed; flames are not. I would also like to add that I am not a nurse or doctor, nor am I studying to be one, so this story will require a lot of research. My apologies for any medical inaccuracies.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Grey's Anatomy. I only own my OFC, Leslie Etheridge. (Whose actor, at least how I picture her, would be Jennifer Aniston.) I know, shocker.**

 **Song selection: "Kiri"~ Monoral**

Episode 1

 _A Hard Day's Night_

 _Beep. Beep. Beep. BEEEP!_ My alarm snaps me out of a deep, hangover-induced slumber. Groaning audibly, I reach my hand out from under the covers and fumble until I slap the alarm off.

I slowly peel the covers off of my body, my cotton fortress dissipating. I brush strings of hair from my face and place my hands on my knees, glancing at the alarm clock. The red digital dials inform me that it is 9:30 A.M.

I was supposed to be at the hospital for rounds at least half an hour ago. And on my first day. Dr. Bailey is going to kill me.

"SHIT!" My outburst startles my cat, Rosie, who's curled up on the other pillow. She makes a low, guttural sound halfway between a growl and a purr; her tail twitching in blatant annoyance. She's probably not too happy that I interrupted her beauty sleep.

I trip over the blanket as I start toward the bathroom, landing face down on the floor. I quickly stand, not even bothering to regain my bearings, and kick the blanket off my feet before darting into the bathroom and changing quickly into my smock. I know without even looking at the clock that I don't have time for a shower, which, I'm craving. I look at myself in the mirror and nearly cringe. I look like something out of a horror movie. My hair is still greasy, and not only do I feel horrible, I look twice as bad. I pull my hair into a messy ponytail and dab on some concealer, jump into my shoes, and close the bathroom door quickly behind me and reassure my cat that I'll be back. She turns her back to me and closes her eyes, indifferent.

(Yes, I do talk to my cat. Who doesn't?)

I pluck my car keys from the bowl on the kitchen counter, slip out the door, and slide the bolt home.

 **HOUR 1**

"Each of you comes here hopeful. Wanting in on the game. A month ago you were in med school being taught by doctors. Today, you _are_ the doctors. The seven years you spend here as a surgical student will be the best and worst of your life. You will be pushed to the breaking point. Look around you. Say hello to your competition. Eight of you will switch to an easier specialty. Five of you will crack under the pressure. Two of you will be asked to leave. This is your starting line. This is your arena. How well you play? That's up to you." Dr. Bailey scans each of us as we line up against the lockers. I already feel like I'm in the military instead of a hospital. Dr. Bailey is the sergeant and we the naive soldiers.

The tension is high- I can almost smell it among the other interns. Some fidget nervously, glancing around as if they're just waiting for this day to end already, while others either hide their uneasiness or don't experience first-day heebie jeebies at all. I am not one of the latter people.

"Okay! Martin, Robinson, Bond, Parkins..."

"Only six women out of twenty," one woman whispers next to me.

"Yeah." Her Asian companion nods. "I hear one of them's a model. Seriously, like that's going to help with the respect thing?"

I don't know how to respond to this, so I choose not to.

"You're Cristina, right?" The woman who spoke up first turns to the Asian woman.

"Which resident you assigned to?" Cristina inquires, as a way of introducing herself. "I got Bailey."

"Me, too," I speak up, and both Cristina and the woman turn to look at me.

"The Nazi?" the first woman proposes. "Yeah, me too."

"The Nazi?" I repeat, blinking. That can't be a good thing.

"You got the Nazi?" the guy next to me says as he struggles to pull on his smock. I nod. "At least we'll be tortured together, right?" I can't help but smile; something about his sense of humor is contagious. "I'm George O'Malley," he tells me, extending his hand.

I shake it firmly. "Leslie Etheridge. Pleasure to meet you."

George grins and nods, then turns to Cristina. "Uh, we, met at the mixer," he says, a red tint to his cheeks. "You had a black dress with a slit up the side, strappy sandals…" His blush deepens to a crimson red.

Meredith and Cristina exchange glances. I giggle, then cover my mouth with my palm feign a cough.

George looks stricken. "Now you think I'm gay."

Cristina is already halfway out the door. "Uh-huh."

"No, I'm not gay," George protests, stumbling over his words and hurrying after her. I follow suit. "It's, ah, it's just, you know, you were, I mean, you were very unforgettable."

Dr. Bailey turns to us and points. I stiffen. "O'Malley, Etheridge, Grey, Stevens." My cinched muscles relax, relief that I wasn't singled out myself flowing through me.

"And I'm totally forgettable," George mutters, looking at his feet defeatedly.

I pat his shoulder. "Don't hurt yourself, sweetie," I remind him gently. "There are worse things in the world than being gay. I mean, I totally support you."

"But...I'm not gay!" George insists meekly, chastined.

A male doctor walks past. Cristina stops him. "Bailey?" she questions.

The doctor jerks his thumb past her shoulder. "End of the hall."

The doctor is gone by the time we turn in the direction he pointed. A young, petite, African American woman with a chin-length pixie cut stands at the end of the hallway, arms folded across her chest. Her facial expression is stern, and she has a no-pussy-footing-around aura.

Cristina gawks at the woman. "That's the Nazi?" she whispers, clearly in awe.

"I thought the Nazi would be a guy," George admits, equally as shocked.

"I thought the Nazi would be...the Nazi," Meredith muses to no one in particular.

"Maybe it's professional jealousy," the pretty, blonde girl flanking us suggests, speaking up for the first time since arriving. "Maybe she's brilliant, and they call her a Nazi because they're jealous. Maybe she's nice."

All heads snapped toward Pretty Girl.

"Let me guess," Cristina says flatly. "You're the model."

I half-cough, half-giggle into my palm and look away indifferently.

Izzie shoots Cristina a look, then turns to Dr. Bailey, smiling and extending a hand. "Hi, I'm Isobel Stevens," she greets cheerfully, "but everyone calls me Izzie."

Yup, she's definitely the model. She's airheady, and way too friendly. That poor girl is going to get taken advantage of in a heartbeat.

Dr. Bailey looks Izzie up and down, scrutinizing her, but doesn't return her hand shake. "I have five rules. Memorize them. Rule number one, don't bother sucking up, I already hate you, that's not gonna change." She gestures the nearby desk. "Trauma protocol, phone lists, pagers. Nurses will page you, you answer every page at a run. A run, that's rule number two. Your first shift starts now and lasts forty-eight hours. You're interns: grunts, nobodies, bottom of the surgical food chain, you run labs, write orders, work every second night till you drop and don't complain!" She leads us down the hallway to a closet and opens the door, revealing a darkened room with bunk beds. "On call rooms. Attendings hog them, sleep when you can, where you can, which brings me to rule number three, if I'm sleeping, don't wake me, unless your patient is actually dying. Rule number four, the dying patient better not be dead when I get there, not only would you have killed someone, you would have also woke me for no good reason, we clear?"

Meredith's hand shoots up. "You said five rules," she points out. "That was only four."

After a beat of silence, Dr. Bailey's pager beeps. "Rule number five: When I move, you move." Dr. Bailey pushes her way through the group, storming past us. "Get out of my way!"

George and I exchange uncomfortable glances.

I can now see why they call Dr. Bailey the Nazi.

 **HOUR 2**

Helicopter rotors up close sound a lot like bullets. I discover that as soon as we rush outside toward the emergency vehicle pulling into the parking lot. My ponytail is almost undone by the force of the wind from the rotors as we get closer and closer to the helicopter.

"What've we got?" Dr. Bailey queries as a seizing teen girl is lifted from the ambulance onto a stretcher and pushed hurriedly into the hospital. I jog to keep pace with Dr. Bailey and the stretcher.

"Katie Bryce, fifteen-year-old female," the paramedic pushing the stretcher replies through labored breathing. "New onset seizures, intermittent for the past week, ID lost en route; started grand mal seizing as we descended."

"All right, get her on her side, Leslie," Dr. Bailey barks as we round a corner. I nod and quickly move the spazzing girl on her side. "Izzie, ten milligrams Diazepam-" Izzie nods. "-No no, the white lead is on the right!" Dr. Bailey shouts at the paramedic. "Righty whitey, smoke over a fire, a large bore I.V., Don't let the blood haemolyse, let's go!"

Izzie injects the girl, and the seizing promptly comes to a halt.

A new doctor- a man whose nametag reads **DR. BURKE** \- comes to Dr. Bailey's side. "So I heard we got a wet fish on dry land?" he asks, observing the now motionless girl on the stretcher.

"Absolutely, Dr. Burke," Dr. Bailey replies, glancing down at the girl.

Dr. Burke looks up. "Dr. Bailey, I'm gonna shotgun her."

"That means every test in the book: CT, CBC, chem. Seven, a tox screen. Cristina," she says firmly, turning to the said girl, "you're on labs. George and Leslie, you're on patient workups. Meredith, get Katie for a CT. She's your responsibility now."

Izzie looks lost in the shuffle. "Wait- what about me?"

Dr. Bailey turns to Izzie. "You, honey," she crows, surprisingly sympathetically, "get to do rectal exams."

Izzie blushes, looking unconfident for the first time since arriving at the hospital, and fumbles to snap on plastic gloves. I feel sorry for her.

"Rectal exams on her first day?" I whisper to George once Izzie is out of earshot. "That's gotta suck ass. Literally."

George's attempt to stifle a snicker fails, and Dr. Bailey glares at him, then at me. "You two," she barks, pointing at us. "You're not in high school anymore. Patient workups, now."

"Yes ma'am!" I nod quickly and turn to go down the hallway, George running to keep up.

 **HOUR 3**

George places the stethoscope on the patient's chest, listening in for the pulse closely. "Yeah. Sounds good," he assures the patient and his female companion, putting the stethoscope around his neck again.

The woman looks at George and I hopefully. "He'll be fine?"

I nod at the woman and then smile at the man. "You'll be fine," I tell them softly, patting the woman's hand.

She smiles back, relieved, and looks at the man dreamily. I assume they're a couple, judging by the dreamy stares and gaga eyes they've been giving each other since George and I walked in.

The patient lies back down. "If you don't count that my bacon days are over, yeah."

"You'll have surgery tomorrow with Dr. Burke," George tells him. "I hear he's good. And after that, you can have all the bacon-flavored soy product you can eat."

"And maybe have a side of veggies with that," I add, only half-teasingly. "Doctor's orders."

"Mmm, kill me now," the patient groans theatrically, allowing his head to fall onto the pillow.

"I wish I could, but I'm a healer." George shrugs, receiving weird looks from the patient and I.

 **HOUR 4**

After the rounds with our first patient, George and I locate Izzie, who's in the middle of a rectal exam; Dr. Burke nearby monitoring her carefully.

George and I peer into the room, our curiosity obvious.

Izzie's crouching at the end of the bed across from a middle-aged man. "Okay, so, I'm gonna... I'm just gonna…" Izzie clears her throat. "Insert my fingers into your rectum." Although Izzie looks as if she's going to gag, she proceeds to spread the patient's legs apart.

"Poor Izzie," I whisper to George. "I could never do that in my life. Never."

George doesn't attempt to hide his disgust. "Nope."

Dr. Burke's head snaps up, noticing us. "Out. Out," he orders firmly, gesturing to the hallway.

"Bet you missed a lot when you first started out," George remarks. I stamp down, hard, on his foot, and he winces, massaging his foot.

Dr. Burke looks derisive.

George and I start to head out, and I try to sneak one last peek before I follow him, poking my head in the doorway.

George grabs me by the shirt sleeve and pulls me down the hallway with him.

 **HOUR 5**

Lunchtime rolls around much more quickly than I'd originally anticipated. I guess keeping busy helps. And when you're an intern, not being busy definitely isn't optional.

After getting my food, I sit down across from Cristina and Izzie, who's gawking at her food in horror, at one of the tables in the cafeteria.

George plops down next to me, sliding his tray in front of him. "This shift is a marathon, not a sprint," he reminds her, gesturing to her untouched food. "Eat."

Izzie looks at him helplessly. "I can't," she says slowly.

George bites into his hotdog, chewing noisily. "You should eat something."

"You try eating after performing seventeen rectal exams." Izzie shudders profusely. "The Nazi hates me."

"The Nazi hates everyone," I tell her, spearing a piece of iceberg lettuce with my fork. "So you're not exactly special."

"The Nazi's a resident," George says, swallowing his food. "I have attendings hating me."

"You know Meredith's inbred?" Cristina speaks up.

"Eew." I wrinkle my nose. "Eating here, Cristina."

"Like it's uncommon around here to be a doctor's-" George begins, but Cristina interjects, "No, I mean, royally inbred. Her mother is Ellis Grey."

I choke on my water, and Izzie slaps the table. "Shut up! _The_ Ellis Grey?"

George slaps my back repeatedly until my coughing subsides. "Are you talking about who I think you're talking about?" I manage to croak out finally, clearing my throat.

Cristina nods. "Uh-huh."

George looks left out. "Who's Ellis Grey?"

Izzie, Cristina, and I laugh.

"The Grey method?" Cristina elaborates, twirling spaghetti on her fork. "Where'd you go to med school, Mexico?"

"She was one of the first big chick surgeons," Izzie explains. "She practically invented the abdominal-"

"She's a living legend," Cristina whispers, her eyes widening. "She won the Harper Ivey. _Twice_."

George looks down. "So I didn't know one thing."

"It's okay, grasshopper." I pat his shoulder sympathetically. "We're all new here."

"Talk about parental pressure," Izzie says sagely.

"I would _kill_ to have Ellis Grey as a mother." Cristina places her elbows on the table and rests her head on her hands. "I would kill to _be_ Ellis Grey."

"Wouldn't we all?" I point my fork at her in agreement.

Footsteps cause me to look up. Meredith Grey approaches our table, carrying a food-filled tray.

"Speak of the devil," I mutter under my breath, popping a piece of lettuce in my mouth.

"Katie Bryce is a pain in the ass," Meredith grumbles, sitting down next to Cristina. "If I hadn't taken the Hippocratic oath, I'd Kevorkian her with my bare hands." She takes a bite of her food.

We all stare at her silently.

Meredith pauses mid-chew. "What?" She tilts her head to one side apprehensively.

Before any of us can respond, a new voice chimes in, "Good afternoon, interns." Dr. Burke hovers near our table, his eyes scanning us each before landing on George. "It's posted, but I thought I'd share the good news personally. As you know, the honor of performing the first surgery is reserved for the intern that shows the most promise. As I'm running the OR today, I get to make that choice." He claps George on the shoulder. "George O'Malley. You'll scrub in for an appendectomy this afternoon. Congratulations."

George looks up at Dr. Burke, food dangling out of his mouth. "Me?" he asks incredulously, eyes wide.

Without another word, Dr. Burke walks away, leaving us all in stunned silence.

George's shocked gaze snaps to me. "Did he say...me?"

"I think he did," I say in a low voice, eating the last bite of my salad. "Congrats."

Sometimes, good things can happen when you least expect it.

Even if the good thing doesn't happen to you.

 **HOUR 6**

"He's going to faint. He's a fainter."

"Naah. Code brown. Right in his pants."

"He's all about the flops, he's going to sweat himself unsterile."

"Ten bucks says he messes up the McBird."

"Twenty says he cries."

"I'll put twenty on a total meltdown."

"Fifty says he pulls the whole thing off."

All interns look at Meredith, the room going silent.

"That's one of us down there." Meredith gestures to George, who is muttering to himself and leaning over the surgery table. "The first one of us. Where's your loyalty?"

A beat. Then, Cristina says, "Seventy-five says he can't even ID the appendix."

"I'll take that action," Izzie acknowledges, and the others murmur their agreement.

"Damn." I slap my leg and stretch, leaning against the back of my chair. "You guys are brutal. Chillax."

"Chillax?" Meredith echoes, and I shrug.

"Chill out, relax...chillax." They all stare at me blankly. "Oh, so that saying's only a Chicago thing? I always thought it was universal."

"Yup," Meredith says, tilting her head at me. "Definitely only a Chicago thing."

I stare at her. "Was it really that obvious?"

"Oh, honey," Cristina cooes. "You have no idea."

"Okay, O'Malley." We all peer down through the glass, where Dr. Burke is standing next to George. "Let's see what you can do."

"Here it comes," Meredith murmurs, crossing her legs.

George sways a little, but regains his composure. "Scalpel."

The nurse passes him the tool. "Scalpel."

George takes it, and we cheer loudly.

Dr. Burke glares up at us and motions for us to shut up.

"That Burke, he's trouble," Cristina remarks, causing laughter from the interns.

George leans closer to the patient on the table, preparing to cut.

"More pressure," Dr. Burke tells George, coming to his side. "Human flesh is a tough shell; dig in."

George nods. "Pickups."

"Pickups."

"Clamp."

"Clamp."

George suddenly stops cutting. "Met some bone," he announces, looking at Dr. Burke. "I'm there."

"Damn," one intern whispers. "He got the peritoneum and he opened him up."

Meredith grins triumphantly. "I told you, he's going to pull it off."

I nod. "That's our George," I agree, smiling.

"Scalpel."

"Scalpel."

"Appendix is out," George says, tossing it into the trash can, prompting more cheers.

Dr. Burke looks like a proud father whose son finally rode a bike without training wheels. "Not bad."

George sighs with relief. "Thank you."

"Now," Dr. Burke continues, pointing to the tool in George's hands, "all you have to do is invert the stump into the cecum and simultaneously pull up on the purse strings but be careful not to-" a rip- "break them." Dr. Burke groans. "He ripped the cecum. Got a bleeder. You're filling with stool, what do you do now?"

George sways again, on the verge of fainting. "Uh...uh…"

"George," I mouth, shaking my head. He looks up at me almost helplessly. "Milk it. Milk it." I mime pulling on cow utters.

"Think," Dr. Burke coaxes softly but firmly. "You start the suction, and you start digging for those purse-strings before she bleeds to death. Belky, give him a clamp."

"B.P.'s dropping," the nurse remarks, glancing up at the heart monitor, which is indeed beeping frantically now.

George stands frozen, scalpel still in hand, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

"He's choking," Cristina murmurs.

"Come on, George," Meredith urges in a whisper.

"Today," Dr. Burke snaps, losing patience. (Okay, that pun was definitely intended.) "Pull your balls out of your back pocket, let's go! What are you waiting for, suction?" The beeping increases; more high-pitched and ear-piercing now.

"Getting too low, folks…" Belky murmurs. "Dr. Burke?"

"Get out of the way." Dr. Burke pushes past George, shoving him. "Pansy-ass idiot. Get him out of here. Suction. Clamp."

I lean over to Meredith and whisper, "Poor George."

"007," the male intern next to me mutters.

"007," his companion agrees. "Yep, that's a total 007."

"What's 007 mean?" Izzie asks in a low voice, her gaze traveling from both young men, then to Meredith.

Meredith folds her arms over her chest and stares out the glass window. "License to kill."

 **….HOUR 19**

"007. They're calling me 007, aren't they?"

"No one's calling you 007."

"I was on the elevator and Murphy whispered 007."

"Oh, how many times do we have to go through this, George?" Cristina groans. "Five? Ten? Give me a number or else I'm going to hit you."

George stares at his hands. "Murphy whispered 007 and everyone laughed."

"He wasn't talking about you," Izzie reassures him, stretching out on the bed.

George looks at Izzie. "You sure?"

Meredith glances at him. "Would we lie to you?"

"Yes," George replies, frowning.

"007," Cristina says, placing her hand on her knee, "is a state of mind."

George scowls. "Says the girl who finished top of her class at Stanford."

Meredith's pager beeps. "Oh, man," she groans, pocketing her pager after glancing at it. "It's 911 for Katie Bryce. I gotta go." She takes off running and disappears into the shadowy hallway.

"Maybe I should have gone into geriatrics," George mutters to himself. "No one minds when you kill an old person."

I groan. "George, sometimes, people wig out," I reassure him, leaning against the wall. "So you blew your first big surgery. It's not a big deal. You'll get your chance."

"Surgery is hot," Cristina adds sagely. "It's the Marines, it's macho, it's hostile, it's hardcore. Geriatrics is for freaks who live with their mothers and never have sex."

I snicker, taking a swig from my grape-flavored water bottle.

George stares off into the hallway at nothing in particular. "I've got to get my own place."

Cristina and I shoot each other looks and smile thinly.

 **HOUR 20**

I yawn, shielding my mouth with my palm. "Is my shift over yet?" I moan, letting my head rest on the countertop.

"God, I hate nurses," a male voice grumbles, and I open my eyes to see one of the interns who watched George's surgery standing beside Meredith and I. "I'm Alex. I'm with Jeremy. You two are with the Nazi, right?"

I nod groggily, and Meredith says, "She may not have pneumonia, you know. She could be splinting, or have a PE."

Alex sighs. "Like I said, I hate nurses."

Meredith glares at Alex. "Did you just call me a nurse?"

Alex shrugs. "Well, if the white cap fits..."

Meredith's pager beeps. "Dammit, Katie," she mutters to herself before walking away.

I glare at Alex. "You're just an asshole, you know that?" I brush past him and follow Meredith.

Meredith and I round the corner to Katie's room, where several nurses are running inside, looking frantic. We pick up the pace and run across the threshold.

Several nurses are gathered by Katie's side. The said girl is seizing again, twitching and trembling violently, white foam pouring out of her mouth and onto the bed. Her eyes are rolled back into her head, only displaying the whites. She looks possessed.

"What took you so long?"

"She's having multiple grand mal seizures, now how do you want to proceed?" Meredith blanks out, staring into space, her chest heaving up and down quickly, in sync with her labored breathing. "Dr. Grey, are you listening to me? She's got Diazepam, 2mg Diazepam, I just gave her a second ago. Dr. Grey, you need to tell us what you want to do. Dr. Grey!"

Meredith doesn't shift from her panicked state, staring at the seizing girl on the bed.

"Oh, for God's sake." I grab Meredith by the shoulders and shake her. "Dr. Grey!" I yell in her face.

That seems to do the job; she finally snaps out of her panic. "Okay, she's full on Prazepam?"

"She's had 4mg," the nurse holding a still-seizing Katie steady replies.

"Did you page Dr. Bailey and Dr. Shepherd?"

Katie's seizure grows even more violent, her body thrusting against the sides of the bed.

"The Prazepam's not working!"

Meredith sucks in her breath. "Phenobarbital. Load her with phenobarbital."

I inject phenobarbital into Katie's leg, but her seizing doesn't subside. My heart pounds against my chest, taut with anxiety, and I can now understand Meredith's prior panic. "No change."

"You paged Dr. Shepherd?" Meredith asks, and I shake my head. "Well, page him again. Stat!" The heart monitor beeps quicker and quicker, and Meredith freezes up, her initial panic returning.

"What do you want to do?"

"Dr. Grey, you've got to tell us what you want to do!"

The beeping becomes thin and longer, less staccato.

"Heart's stopped!"

"Code blue, code blue! Code blue, code blue!"

"Charged. Clear."

"Still defib. Nothing."

"Charging. 19 seconds."

"Charge 300."

"300. Anything? 27 seconds."

"Charge to 360," Meredith says as I place my hands on Katie's chest and attempt to proceed with chest compressions. "Come on, Katie…"

"49 seconds."

"At 60 seconds you're supposed to admit her-"

"Charge again!" Meredith orders, and I attempt another chest compression. "Charge again. Anything?"

"I see sinus rhythm."

"Blood pressure's coming up again."

"All right. Pressure's returning. Grid's coming back-"

A young, very attractive doctor whose nametag reads **DR. SHEPHERD** runs in. "What the hell happened?" he demands, turning to Meredith.

"She had a seizure, and-"

"A seizure?" Dr. Shepherd looks at Katie, then to Meredith.

I swallow. "Her heart stopped."

If looks could kill, Dr. Shepherd's would smother. "You were supposed to be monitoring her!"

Meredith is flustered. "I checked on her, and she-"

"I got it." Dr. Shepherd's jaw tightens in annoyance. "Just- just go." Meredith turns away, but does not exit the room. "Someone give me her chart, please?" I pass Dr. Shepherd Katie's chart.

He nods, and I nod back. The universal doctor-to-doctor nod. I see you.

"Leslie, more chest compressions," Dr. Shepherd orders, and I snap out of my daze (Ogling a fellow doctor during a medical emergency? How unprofessional of me) and begin chest compressions once more before proceeding with mouth-to-mouth CPR. I hold for 5 seconds, then breathe a sigh of relief when Katie's pulse returns, the heartbeat monitor beating slowly but steadily with the promise of life.

 **HOUR 24**

Cristina, George, Meredith, and I are all gathered in the small staff room just down the hall from Katie's room, awaiting some big announcement, apparently. At this point, the only big announcement that I want to hear is that I can go to bed. I've never been so exhausted in my life.

Cristina stabs a banana with a fork, and Meredith and I giggle.

"What are you doing?" Meredith asks her between chuckles.

"I'm suturing a banana," Cristina replies, pulling the peel off her banana, "with the vain hope that it wakes up my brain."

George laughs.

Cristina glares at him. "What are you smiling at, 007?"

George stops laughing and looks down.

"I'm sorry." Cristina shrugs and bites into her banana. "I get mean when I'm tired."

"I can see that," I say flatly, turning to face the doorway.

"You know what?" George muses. "I don't care. I comforted a family, and I get to hang out in the OR today. All is well."

I grin at George. "That's the spirit."

Cristina looks around apprehensively. "Does anybody know why we're here?"

Almost as if on cue, Dr. Shepherd strides in, and all attention snaps to him. "Well, good morning," he greets, and the interns murmur their call-and-response "good mornings."

Dr. Shepherd paces the room as he speaks. "I'm going to do something pretty rare for a surgeon, I'm going to ask interns for help. I've got this kid, Katie Bryce. Right now, she's a mystery. She doesn't respond to her meds. Labs are clean, scans are pure, but she's having seizures. Grand mal seizures with no visible cause. She's a ticking clock. She's going to die, if I don't make a diagnosis. Which is where you come in. I can't do it alone. I need your extra minds, extra eyes, I need you to play detective, I need you to find out why Katie is having seizures. I know you're tired, you're busy, you've got more work than you could possibly handle. I understand. So, I'm going to give you an incentive. Whoever finds the answer rides with me. Katie needs surgery. You get to do what no interns get to do. Scrub in to assist on an advanced procedure. Dr. Bailey's going to hand you Katie's chart. The clock is ticking fast, people. If we're going to save Katie's life, we have to do it soon."

Interns grab charts off the table, scurrying off to their designated assignments.

I pull my own chart off the table and tuck it under my arm, pausing when I feel someone staring at me.

Dr. Shepherd's dark gaze lingers on me, and, although it's not scary or threatening, my heart does start beating faster. It's hard to deny it- he does have good looks. But I can't be distracted by plain ol' good looks on the job. Although, it really isn't fair; how attractive he is. I wonder if he's aware that he's this attractive.

"Dr. Shepherd." I nod jerkily at him and turn to go hurriedly down the hallway, quickly disappearing into the shadows.

 **HOUR 25**

As I hurry my way to Katie's room, her chart still tucked under my arm, I walk past George, who's peering into the window of one of the patients' rooms.

I pivot and turn back, coming to George's side. "Hey," I say with a quick smile as he steps aside.

"Hey," George echoes, glancing at me momentarily before retaliating his gaze back to the window.

I cup my hands around my eyes and peer in. Dr. Burke is leaning over the table, performing surgery on a familiar patient.

"Bacon Man?" I inquire, glancing at George, and he nods.

"The one and only." George and I look into the window again.

Dr. Burke finishes sewing up the patient.

"Well, looks like he'll be back to eating bacon sooner than he expected," I quip, and George smiles as Dr. Burke opens the door, stepping smoothly into the hallway.

"Wow, that was quick," George remarks vigilantly.

Dr. Burke nods. "His heart had too much damage to give him a bypass," he explains. "I had to let him go. It happens rarely. But it does happen. The worst part of the game."

In English? Bacon Man didn't make it.

"But I told his wi-" George buckles, "I told Gloria that he'd be fine. I promised her-"

Dr. Burke snaps to attention, like a soldier. "You what?"

 _Uh-oh_ , I think, wincing inwardly. _In which George O'Malley feels the full-throttle wrath of Dr. Burke._

"They have four little girls-" George begins, and Dr. Burke blows his stack.

"Who are you to promise anything on?! This is my case. Did you hear me promise? The only one who can keep a promise like that is God, and I haven't seen him holding a scalpel lately. You _never_ promise a patient's family a good outcome!"

George flushes, flustered. "I-I thought-"

"You think you're important enough to make promises to Mrs. Savage," Dr. Burke snaps, turning to go, "you get to be the one to tell her she's a widow." He storms down the hallway. His outburst drew a few stares from patients (and even some non-patients) in the waiting room, including an older, white-haired woman leaning forward to observe the drama unfolding in the hallway.

George looks at me. "I'm screwed, aren't I?"

I nod seriously. "I'm afraid so."

George sighs, tilts his head to the ceiling, then looks at the woman.

George drops his hands to his sides. "Guess I'm the messenger boy," he mumbles. "Be right back."

I lean against the wall, hugging the clipboard against my chest, as George informs Mrs. Savage of her husband's demise.

"I'm so sorry," George says softly, his face solemn.

The woman sobs into her hands. "Thank you," she whispers, her voice quivering. "Please, go away."

George ambles back over, regret flashing in his eyes. He leans against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. "You know, I would have been a really good postal worker," he muses. "I'm dependable. You know, my parents tell everyone they meet that their son's a surgeon. As if it's a big accomplishment. A superhero, or something. If they could see me now…"

"When I was little, I wanted to be a ballerina," I confess quietly, folding my arms over my chest.

George looks over at me. "We're going to survive this, right?"

Everyone always asks me why, and sometimes in my right in mind, would I want to be a surgeon. Besides helping people and saving lives? I'm really not sure. Holding a stranger's heart in your hands and knowing at the end of the day that their fate rests on you, and that one little mistake could cost a life, is nerve-wracking. It's more than nerve-wracking. It's downright terrifying, if you ask me.

I don't know a lot of things.

And this is just the beginning.

But I two things:

I have a job to do.

And I'm here to stay.


	2. Episode 2: The First Cut Is the Deepest

**Song selection: "Land of Confusion"~ Genesis**

Episode 2

 _The First Cut Is the Deepest_

"Why do you put up posters for roommates if you don't want roommates?"

"I do want roommates. We work together a hundred hours a week. You want to live together, too?" Meredith hands a coffee cup to Cristina and I.

"No." Cristina stares into her cup and sniffs it. "Oo, you're bringing bribes now?"

I smile. "She's like a stray cat," I warn Meredith, sipping my own coffee. "Once you feed her, she never goes away."

"I need a place to live," George says miserably. "My mom irons my scrubs. I have to get out of here."

"It's not a bribe." Meredith frowns. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"But I can put down last, first, and deposit," George insists, practically begging her.

A beat. Then, Cristina decides, "It's totally a bribe."

"It's a mocha lotte," I agree. "It's more than a bribe. It's more brownie points for Meredith."

"I can cook," Izzie adds, ignoring Cristina and I's exchange. "And I'm an obsessive cleaner."

"I have a cat," I pipe up, swigging down the rest of my coffee and tossing the cup into the nearby trash can. They stare at me. "I thought we were ticking off what we did. Izzie cleans and cooks; I have a cat. But we're a package deal. So, if she can't move in, then I'm not moving in."

"No!" Meredith sighs. "I just want two total strangers who I don't have to talk to, or be nice to, and it's not a bribe; it's a mocha latte."

"Mocha lattes," I insist as Cristina finishes off her own beverage, "are officially bribes."

Dr. Bailey comes storming down the hallway, cutting off all conversation. "George, you're running code teams," she barks, pointing at each of us. "Meredith and Leslie, take the trauma patients. Cristina, deliver the weekend labs to the patients. Izzie, you're on sutures."

"Dr. Bailey." Meredith raises her hand. "I was hoping to assist you in the OR today, maybe do a minor procedure? I think I'm ready." She offers Dr. Bailey a coffee cup. "Mocha latte?"

"Okay, definitely not backing up her claim about the whole bribe thing," I whisper to George.

"If she gets to cut, I want to cut, too," Cristina speaks up hopefully.

"Yeah, me too," Izzie agrees.

"Me, three," I add.

"I wouldn't mind another shot," George counters hesitantly. "I mean, if everybody else is…"

Dr. Bailey raises her palms up. "Stop talking," she orders. "Every intern wants to perform their first surgery, that's not your job. Do you know what your job is? To make your resident happy. Do I look happy? No. Why? Because my interns are whining. You know what will make me look happy? Having the code team staffed, having the trauma patients answered, having the weekend labs delivered, and having someone down in the Pit, doing the sutures." She takes the mocha latte from Meredith. "No one holds a scalpel until I'm so happy I'm Mary freakin' Poppins."

"Mocha latte, my ass," Cristina mutters under her breath.

"Why are y'all standing there?" Dr. Bailey glares at us. "Move!"

We all turn to walk toward our designated assignments.

"See you later," I say to George, who nods. We part ways, Meredith taking the elevator and I the stairs. I take the stairs two by two, almost colliding head-on with Meredith at the top.

She doesn't give me time to apologize. "Ready?"

I nod. "Ready," I echo, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

"You the surgeon?" Meredith and I whip around to see one of the nurses standing in the hallway in front of us.

"Yes," Meredith and I confirm in unison.

"We've got a rape victim," the nurse tells us, gesturing to the room beside her. "You better get in here."

"21-year-old female found at the park," the nurse states as we follow her into the darkened room. "Status: post-trauma. She came in with a GCS of 6, BP 80 over 60, head trauma, unequal breath sounds, right pupil is dilated, and she's ready for X-ray. You ready to roll."

Meredith stares at the nurse's shoes, zoned out again.

"Hey!" the nurse exclaims with more annoyance than concern.

Meredith snaps back to attention. "Yeah." She clears her throat. "Call it in to clear the CT, let them know we're coming. Load up the portable monitor, call respiratory for a ventilator-"

"I'll get X-rays while we're down there," I volunteer, and Meredith nods.

Sirens pierce the air, signaling the victim's arrival.

"She's going to spend a hell of a lot of time in recovery and rehab."

"If she survives."

"What is she, like, five-ten, a hundred pounds? She's still breathing after what this guy did to her? If they catch the guy, they should castrate him."

"See how shredded her hands are?" Dr. Burke gestures to the girl's chapped, scabby hands. "She tried to fight back."

"Tried to?" Dr. Shepherd scoffs, picking up a scalpel. "Rape kit came back negative. She kicked his ass."

"Well, I say good for her." I nod at the motionless girl on the table. "You go, sweetie," I encourage her, although I know she can't hear me under the anesthesia.

Dr. Burke whistles through his teeth. "So, we have a warrior among us, huh?"

"Alison," Meredith says quietly, and Dr. Burke and Dr. Shepherd look at her. "Her- her name is Alison."

Dr. Shepherd nods slowly. "Alison," he repeats softly.

"I think I may have found the cause of our rupture." Dr. Burke holds up a piece of flesh, dangling it in the air. "What's this? Does anyone know what this is?"

Meredith squints at the flesh in his hand, and we both gasp when realization hits us. "Oh, my God," she breathes, putting her hand over her mouth.

"What?" Dr. Burke turns to her. "Spit it out, Grey."

Meredith swallows. "That's his...penis," she chokes out. Shocked groans resonate from the other interns.

"She bit off his penis," I say quietly.

Dr. Burke flings the piece of flesh into the tray as if it had burned him, horrified.

Cristina, George, and I sit against the hallway wall on break, watching people go about their business.

"Do you know what the code team does?" George counters, drumming his fingers on his knee. "Saves lives. I shock a heart and someone lives to see another day. It's upbeat. It's a glass half-full."

Cristina just looks at him. "Bambi, don't say another word until the hunter shoots your mother," she chides.

"Well, it's my lucky day," I say dryly. "I got stuck with the trauma patients. A rape victim bit off her rapist's dick."

George raises his eyebrows. "Good for her." Then, to Cristina, he deadpans, "I don't like you."

"Well, I have a B.A. from Smith," Cristina replies, crossing one leg over the other, "a PHD from Berkeley, and an MD from Stanford, and I'm delivering lab results. It's going to take me all day to get through these."

"Then get started." Dr. Bailey's voice cuts off all conversation.

Cristina looks up. "Oh, uh, I wasn't complaining," she sputters, somewhat taken aback. "I- I don't-"

I seem to be the only one who notices that Alex Karev, the intern from yesterday, is standing beside Dr. Bailey with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

"This intern was reassigned," Dr. Bailey informs us, glancing at Alex, "so he's mine now. Have him shadow you for the day. You show him how I do things." Dr. Bailey walks away, leaving us to Alex.

"Alex Karev." Alex extends his hand. "Nice to meet you."

"The pig who called Meredith a nurse, yeah," Cristina says flatly, not returning the handshake. "I hate you on principle."

"And you're the pushy, overbearing kiss-ass," Alex quips. "I, uh, I hate you, too."

Cristina smirks playfully. "Oh, should be fun, then."

George's pager beeps, and he scrambles to his feet. "Gotta go." He runs down the corridor toward the patient rooms while Alex and Cristina angrily death-stare at each other.

Meredith and I exchange uncomfortable glances.

Meredith raises her free hand to the door and softly knocks before opening it and stepping in. I follow suit, closing the door gently behind me.

We're standing at the chief's office, where an older woman sits hunched over a computer behind the desk.

Meredith turns to me. "What should I say?" she whispers, taut with anxiety.

"I don't know," I hiss back. "You're the one holding it."

Meredith looks down in horror, as if she'd forgotten she was holding the cooler. "Here." She thrusts it at me, and I thrust it back at her.

"I don't want to touch it!"

"Well, I don't either-"

"Ladies." The woman's voice brings our quarrel to a halt. "How may I help you?"

We freeze, both of our hands on the cooler, and gazes snapping to the woman. "Hi," Meredith blurts out finally, after an awkward pause, stepping aside. "Is the chief in?"

I set the cooler on her desk and step back quickly, reaching for the nearby hand soap on the wall and vigorously pumping soap onto my hands.

"He's on his way." The woman nods at the cooler. "Is that it?"

"Yeah," Meredith says warily.

I nod. "Sure is."

The woman raises her eyebrows. "Can I see it?"

Meredith and I glance at each other.

"Did she really just ask to see his...penis?" I whisper in Meredith's ear.

She nods. "Yeah, yeah, I think she did."

The woman sighs. "No, forget I asked."

The door opens, and in steps a tall, balding, broad-shouldered African-American man. His nametag informs us that his name is **DR. WEBBER.**

He smiles warmly at us. "Meredith, it's good to see you," he greets, and she shakes hands with him. "Leslie," he adds, and we shake hands. He turns back to Meredith. "Hey, I heard your mother was leaving Mayo? Going back to U.N.?"

Meredith nods, smiles thinly. "She's, ah, taking some time off."

"To write another book, I suppose," Dr. Webber ponders, more to himself than to Meredith.

Meredith nods again. "Listen, they said to bring this to you-" she gestures to the cooler resting on the desk- "So…?"

"Yes, for the police," Dr. Webber says sagely, glancing at the cooler.

"Right," Meredith confirms.

An awkward silence insus, broken only when Dr. Webber asks when the police will arrive.

"You know how slow they are," the woman behind the desk states matter-of-factly. "So, she'd better take it with her."

Meredith's attention snaps to the woman. "What?"

"Chain of custody rules," Dr. Webber explains thoroughly. "All medical matter in rape must stay with the person who collected it, until it's placed in police custody."

"You collected the specimen," the woman behind the desk elaborates, "so you have custody."

Meredith sways, as if on the verge of fainting. "Custody of a penis."

"Yes." Dr. Webber nods. "Until the cops come for it."

"Okay." Meredith exhales. "What am I supposed to do with a penis?"

Another prolonged, awkward silence falls on the room.

Meredith and I take turns carrying the cooler until we arrive at the main desk, where George is sitting.

I slam the cooler down onto the desk surface, causing George to jump.

"What's that?" he questions, once he regains his composure.

"Don't ask," says Meredith flatly. "You don't want to know."

"I do want to know." George's gaze pans to the cooler. "Really."

Meredith opens her mouth to protest again, and I snap, "Oh for God's sake. We're not in junior high anymore, it's okay to say the word 'penis.'" I lean closer to George and whisper, "It's a severed penis."

"Oookay." George's cheeks flame tomato red. "I didn't really want to know."

I shrug. "Don't shoot the messenger."

Cristina's voice cuts into our exchange. "I don't know why I'm the one who gets hugged."

"Because, I don't do that," Alex replies. "Besides, you're the ovarian sister here."

Our attention turns to Alex and Cristina's quarrel.

Cristina stands in front of Alex, arms folded across her chest, frowning. She's clearly not happy, but neither is Alex. He looks red-faced and frustrated, panting heavily as if he's just run a marathon.

"Did you just call me an ovarian si-" Cristina's glare darkens. "An ovarian- since when has the possession of ovaries become an insult?"

Alex opens his mouth to shoot back a retort, but closes it when Cristina's glare becomes even more smothering.

"Meredith and Leslie are carrying around a penis in a jar," George announces to no one in particular, either failing to hear or ignoring Cristina and Alex's bicker.

"Oh, from the rape surgery?" Cristina peers over the counter and into the cooler.

"Yeah, and it's not a jar," Meredith corrects begrudgingly, miffed, "it's a cooler."

Cristina nods. "Talk about taking a bite of crime," she declares simply, then nonchalantly walks away.

Meredith leans against the counter, looking distant.

"You okay?" George asks her.

Meredith sighs. "Yeah...Alison's shoes," she murmurs. "The rape victim, Alison, her shoes. I have the same ones. In my locker. And I normally never wear them, because they're not comfortable, but today I did"- George and I both automatically sneak a glance at Meredith's shoes- "and she was wearing the same shoes, and it's just stupid, and…" She sighs, running her hands through her hair. "And I'm tired, and forget it."

I go about my own business behind the desk, taking the hint that I'm clearly not apart of this conversation, but half-eavesdrop as I work.

"You know what you need?" George.

A pause. Then, a hesitant Meredith: "No. It's sick and twisted. We said last time was the last time." Another pause, this time heavier. "You've been doing it without me?"

"Nancy Reagan lied," George insists doggedly. "You can't just say no. Come on."

Meredith glances around suspiciously, lowering her voice. "Do you know what would happen if anyone knew?"

"I'm doing it," George states determinedly, unmoved. "You can either come with me...or stay here and be miserable."

"I don't know what you two are planning on doing," I say, leaning on the counter between Meredith and George, "but, hell, I'm in. Anarchy, right?"

George shrugs. "The more, the merrier."

We stand outside the darkened nursery. Babies are swaddled in pink and blue blankies, cocooned by incubators.

A baby boy yawns, stretching, his eyes slowly sliding open. George leans forward into the incubator and baby-talks in a high-pitched yet soft voice.

Meredith chuckles. "You are such a woman," she scoffs, smiling down at the sleepy baby boy in the incubator.

George's pager beeps. "It's a code," he says quickly, jogging into the hallway. "Gotta go."

Meredith and I turn back to the babies.

"You are really cute," Meredith sighs, smiling at the yawning baby.

I step closer to the baby, peering into the incubator. His face is pale, and an almost indigo shade of blue tints his cheeks. His mouth is pinched, as if he's just eaten sour and moving his mouth around to get rid of the taste.

I gesture for Meredith to come closer. She does, frowning slightly. "That's not normal," I whisper, pointing to the baby's face. I glance at Meredith. "Is it?"

Meredith stares at the baby. "No," she says in a low voice. "It's not." She sighs. "Can you keep watch? I'm gonna need to check on him and I don't want-" She glances out into the hallway, then back at me.

I nod. "Consider it done." I go to the window, looking over my shoulder every once in awhile. A girl with long black hair- another intern, I recognize- sidles down the hallway, turning, and I realize she must be a nursery intern.

"Tuck and run," I hiss to Meredith.

She looks up, stethoscope still on the baby's chest. "What?"

"What are you doing in here?" Meredith and I turn around to see girl from the hallway stands on the threshold of the nursery room.

 _Busted._

I fumble for the most plausible ruse, but Meredith interjects, saving the day, "There were no tests ordered. And the baby has a murmur."

"I know." The intern goes about her own business, folding and organizing blankets.

Meredith's frown deepens. "He turned blue."

"You're surgery; you're not authorized to be in here." I don't have to ask to know the intern is referring to both Meredith and I. "Do you know how much trouble you can get into for this?"

"Are you going to do any tests?" Meredith asks, as if the intern hadn't spoken.

"It's a benign systolic ejection murmur," the intern replies, stand-offishly. "It goes away with age."

Meredith bites her lip. "Are you sure it's benign?"

"I'm a doctor too, you know." At this retort, Meredith and I look at each other, eyes widened. "You should get out of here."

"Let's just go," I mouth, and Meredith surrenders, picking up the cooler, and follows me into the hallway.

Sometimes, you just have to pick and choose your battles, whether you like it or not.

Meredith and I go our separate ways. I head downstairs; I want to see if Dr. Bailey has a new assignment for me. I'd really love to perform my first surgery on the second day, but that's one in a million, and you can't have everything. But there's one silver lining: at least I'm no longer stuck carrying around a penis.

A scream causes me to stop walking altogether and look over my shoulder. I immediately locate the source of the scream.

A frantic Chinese woman stands in the middle of the lobby, screaming incoherently at the top of her lungs. Izzie rushes to her side, speaking to her softly and attempting to comfort her, but to no avail. The woman's panic does not subside.

A middle-aged man sitting in a chair in the corner looks up from his newspaper, irked. "Is she crazy or something?"

I shake my head. "No, I-I don't think so-"

A car suddenly swerves outside, and I run through the glass doors, followed by Meredith and several other curious interns. A man is staggering out of his car, blood dripping off his clothing. Blood cakes his entire body. The whole scene is disturbing, on top of the rain and a zombie-looking stranger that may be a rapist standing in the parking lot- but what gains my attention is the blood source: His crotch.

"That's him." I swallow and point to the man. "That's Alison's rapist."

The man collapses onto the damp cement.

I hurriedly come to his side, masking my disgust and fighting nausea. "Call security!" I yell to Meredith. "We've located the rapist."

Meredith nods and pages security, and, within seconds, the security team and a stretcher arrive. Two other interns lift the man onto the stretcher.

Meredith and I rush the stretcher down the hallway. The man groans, his head lolling to the side.

Dr. Bailey arrives, running alongside the stretcher. "So, what've we got?"

"Take a look." Meredith gestures to the man on the stretcher.

"What?" Dr. Bailey looks down at the man. "All right, let's get him to OR. Meredith, you call the chief and let him know we've got the rapist." Meredith nods and jogs off.

We wheel the stretcher into an empty room, lifting the man off the stretcher and onto the bed. He groans, audibly, again. I almost feel sorry for him, but then remember Alison, and my anger returns. But I still have work to do.

Meredith and Cristina arrive, already with masks on. I pull mine on and lean over the bed.

"I saw Alison, you should have seen the beating that she took," Meredith says quietly. "And then to see this…" She gestures to the man.

"It's like that old saying," Cristina chimes in. "'You should see the other guy'."

Dr. Bailey looks up from her notebook. "Why are we not attempting to reattach the severed penis?" she quizzes, drilling our SATS back into us.

"Teeth don't slice, they tear," Cristina answers carefully. "You can only reattach with a clean cut. If she wanted to slice him with a knife, that's another thing."

"But she bit him instead," I add. "Got what he deserved, in my opinion." Cristina and Meredith look at me. "What? He wasn't using it responsibly, and when you don't use something responsibly, there are consequences. Karma's a bitch."

"Besides," Meredith agrees, "most of the digestive juices didn't leave much of the flesh to work with."

Dr. Bailey nods her approval. "Right, so what do we do?"

"Sew him up, minus a big part of the family jewels," Cristina replies.

Dr. Bailey is taking notes. "And his outlook?"

"He'll be urinating out of a bag for a very, very long time," Meredith says sympathetically.

I nod. "Probably for the rest of his life."

"Not to mention," Cristina pipes up, "he'll never be able to have sex again."

Meredith chuckles. "Oh, too bad."

"Shame," Cristina agrees, bitterly.

"Let's all take a moment to grieve," quips Dr. Bailey dryly. A pause. "Clamp."

We get down to business.

By the time night rolls around, I'm exhausted and starving. After grabbing a clementine from the cafe, I plop down next to George on the spare beds in the corridor. Alex and Cristina sit down the row from us.

I begin peeling my orange. "Guess what."

"What." George doesn't look up from his notebook.

"Today," I say, chomping on my orange slice, "I got to sew up a rapist. I didn't reattach his penis, mind you. I simply sewed up the area where his penis once was."

"Fan-ta-stic," George replies, pointing at my orange with his pencil. "That smells good."

"He drove himself here, and stepped out of his car, into the parking lot," I continue, swallowing the orange. "There was so much blood. Also, I got kicked out of the nursery, but it was worth it."

George grins wholeheartedly. "Told ya."

"My head hurts," Alex announces with a groan.

"Maybe it's a tumor," Cristina suggests.

Alex glares at her. "Yeah, you wish I had a tumor."

"Look," Cristina says with a sigh, "I'd rip off your face if it meant I got to scrub in."

Izzie walks in. "I have been suturing all day," she mutters, sitting on the nearest empty bed. "My hands are numb."

"At least you're helping people," George points out glumly.

Alex massages his temples with his thumbs. "At least you're practicing freaking medicine."

"I had to send one Chinese lady away," Izzie tells us, leaning against the wall. "She was, like, camping out down there."

Cristina wrinkles her nose. "Oh, poor Izzie," she coos, feigning sympathy. "Turning away patients. Boo-hoo."

Before Izzie can defend herself, Meredith enters, carrying the cooler. "So," she says, sitting down next to Izzie and placing the cooler beside her, "the police say that they can't send down the crack crime scene guy for hours. So, I have to spend the night with a penis."

"Why do I sense a 'that's what she said' joke coming on?" I remark dryly.

Alex opens his mouth, and Meredith holds up her hand. "Alex, don't say it."

Alex grins. "Ahh, it was too easy anyway," he sighs, leaning back on his palms.

"Shut up, Alex," I say flatly.

"Who here feels like they have no idea what they're doing?" George asks, and all our hands shoot up, opt for Alex. "I mean, are we supposed to be learning something?" George glances at Alex. "Because I don't feel like I'm learning anything."

Izzie yawns. "Except how not to sleep."

"It's like there's this wall," Cristina muses thoughtfully. "And the attendings and residents are over there, being surgeons, and we're over here, being-"

"Suturing, code-running, lab-delivering penis minders," Meredith finishes dryly.

Alex looks miffed. "I hate being an intern."

Dr. Bailey enters, hands on her hips and staring down at us expectantly. We all stand in unison and leave, preparing for another hectic and unpredictable night.

Meredith and I sneak back to the nursery. Most of the babies are asleep, except for the baby who had turned blue. He's wide awake and staring up at us with bright, blue eyes filled with wonder. I pull up a chair and push it close to the incubator, while Meredith talks to the parents, who are sitting in the waiting room chairs, looking worried.

I reach into the glass and tickle his tummy gently. He coos and squirms, blowing a raspberry.

I glance over at Meredith and the parents. The stand-offish intern who kicked us out of the nursery yesterday is standing next to Meredith, with another resident, and the conversation is starting to look heated. The parents look alarmed now, and Dr. Burke pulls the resident aside, voices lowering.

The conversation is muffled from behind the glass, but I can hear and see enough from the hand gestures and glares to figure that no one is happy.

"...which means I can do whatever I want," Dr. Burke is saying now, frowning at the resident. He returns to the parents. "Mr. and Mrs. Johnson," he says, extending his hand, "I'm Dr. Burke, head of cardio. We're going to run some tests and give you an answer within the hour." Worry still flickers in the parents' eyes, but they look less panicked than before.

I smile down at the baby. "You're going to be just fine," I reassure him softly, standing. I walk to Meredith and Dr. Burke's side, jogging to keep up with Dr. Burke's long stride.

"Etheridge, I want an EKG, a chest X-ray, and an ECHO," Dr. Burke orders. "I don't have all day."

I nod jerkily and hurry off toward the X-ray room.

I pick the baby up gently from the X-ray table and cradle him in my arms. "You are all good to go," I whisper, wrapping his blanket tighter around him. I grab the X-rays off the table and tuck them under my free arm, stepping out into the hallway.

Meredith and I nearly collide into each other.

"Oh!" She laughs, a startled laugh, and places her hand over her heart. "Sorry." She sees the baby and smiles. "Hi," she whispers to him.

"Timmy's all ready to go," I tell her.

Meredith looks up and raises her eyebrows. "'Timmy'?"

"It's what I call him," I explain, shifting my weight so the baby is on my other hip. "He can't just go without a name."

Dr. Burke entering the hallway cuts off our conversation. He stops when he notices us.

Meredith looks at him expectantly. "Well?"

"It's a birth defect." Dr. Burke sighs. "Tetrology affirmed lower pulmonary artresia. You were right. I'm booking the OR for tomorrow."

"Told you," I whisper to the baby, who yawns and closes his eyes, succumbing to sleep.

Meredith smiles. "Thank you for backing us up on this."

Dr. Burke halts. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he says slowly, holding up a hand. "You were right. But if you ever pull a stunt like this again...going to the parents behind a doctor's back? Trying to steal a patient from another service?" His eyes shift from Meredith, then to me. "I will make your residency year hell on earth." He takes the baby from me, cradling him in his arms, and carries him to the parents, placing him in the mother's arms. The mother smiles, and I turn to go, heading down the hallway, smiling to myself.

I saved a tiny life.

Even if I was just a small part of it, I at least contributed. I am one of the reasons the baby is still alive.

And at the end of the day, that's a damn good feeling.

I run into George (literally) in the hallway on my way to the main lobby. We collide, both collapsing onto the floor. Pain shoots through my pelvis and lower body.

"Sorry," we both blurt out at once, then laugh in unison.

George lies on his back next to me. "Can I just stay here for the rest of the night?" he mutters, staring up at the ceiling.

"Unless you want to be the receiving end of of the wrath of Dr. Bailey," I say between labored breaths, wincing as another jolt of pain surges through my pelvis, "I don't think that's a very good idea."

George and I help each other up,

"Where're you headed?" I ask as we continue our trek down the hallway.

"Code team," George replies. "You?"

"Alison's room," I say softly. "I just want to see how she's doing. According to Meredith, she has no family. Her parents are dead, and she moved to Seattle just three weeks ago. She didn't get a very warm welcome."

"Alison, the rape victim?" George raises his eyebrows.

I nod. "The one who was wearing Meredith's shoes."

A pause. Then, George says softly, "Jesus."

"I know," I agree. "Poor kid. She's, like, only fifteen. I can't even imagine."

"Me neither," George says quietly.

George's pager beeps. "I gotta go," he says quickly, glancing at his pocket. "See you later." He takes off in the direction of the code team before I can respond.

Sighing, I make my way to Alison's room. When I arrive, I'm greeted by the sound of the monitor beside her bed beeping steadily. The only light in the room is the dimmed lamp on the bedside table; the only sound the crackle and buzz of the flourescent lights on the ceiling. The atmosphere is almost eerie. Meredith leans against the wall, her arms folded across her chest, next to Dr. Shepherd

I sit down in the chair across from the bed, clasping my hands and gazing at Alison. Her eyes are closed, but her chest rises and falls slowly with the motion of her breathing. She looks pale.

"I know you probably can't hear me," I say softly, reaching over and brushing a piece of hair behind her ear, "but things are gonna get better. You're really strong. I know you can push through. You've made it this far. Even if you can't see it, I know you can. And you're not alone."

Alison's eyelids flutter, and for a second I think she's going to wake up, but she doesn't. Suddenly, her monitor's beeping quickens and slices through the air.

My heart pounds against my chest, and I'm suddenly frozen, unable to move a muscle.

"Her ICP's double, get OR!" Dr. Shepherd yells, running to her bed. "Put her in for a craniotomy."

I sit down on the floor, leaning against the wall, and bury my face in my hands.

A wave of dizziness overcomes me, and my world begins to fade….

The sound of familiar voices tugs me back into my consciousness. Slowly, my eyes open. Through blurry vision, I can see Meredith hovering over me, looking worried.

"Leslie? Leslie; are you okay?" She holds up several fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"What...what happened?" My voice is groggy and slurred.

Meredith's facial expression shifts from worried to relieved. "I'd like to ask the same question."

I rub my eyes. "I passed out," I say tiredly. "Anxiety, I guess. Is Alison okay?"

Dr. Shepherd smiles. "She's going to be fine."

"If she ever wakes up," Meredith adds warily, glancing over at Alison. She's stable, her breathing returned to normal.

Dr. Shepherd nods. "If she ever wakes up," he echoes softly.

I allow my head to fall against the wall. "That's the second best news I've heard all day."

At some point, you have to make a decision. Boundaries don't keep other people out. They fence you in. Life is messy.

That's how we're made.

So, you can waste your life; drawing lines.

Or you can live your life crossing them.

I look over at Alison. She takes a deep breath, and her eyelids flutter open.

My heart immediately swells with happiness.

"Welcome back," Dr. Shepherd says softly.

"Welcome back to the world, sweetie," I murmur, smiling at Alison.

But there are some lines that are way too dangerous to cross.

But here's what I know:

If you're willing to take the chance…

The view from the other side is spectacular.


	3. 3: Winning the Battle, Losing the War

**Song selection: "Alive"~ Pearl Jam**

Episode 3

 _Winning a Battle, Losing the War_

The moment I step into Seattle Grace at approximately 6:30 A.M., I can sense the atmosphere is the exact opposite of peppy. The waiting room is more filled than usual, and the hallways seem more hectic, too. Frowning, I hug my clipboard to my chest and approach Dr. Bailey; flanked by George and Alex and the rest of the interns.

Dr. Bailey doesn't look happy. "Fools on bikes killing themselves," she mutters to herself, glaring at no one in particular. "Natural selection is what it is."

I smile thinly and stand next to George and Alex. "Does anyone know what's going on?" I whisper. "I swear it's like a full moon in here or something. Everybody's antsy."

"'Antsy'?" George echoes, arching an eyebrow. "What are you, my grandma?"

Before I can snap back, Alex leans closer to George and whispers, "So what's up with the Nazi? Is she off her meds?"

George shakes his head. "You never heard of the race?"

"What race?" I glance at George, then at another group of interns whisking a stretcher past us, then back to George. "Am I missing something? Because I feel like I'm missing something." I dip my head back and take a long gulp out of my Dasani water bottle.

George winces. "Every year, this bar-"

"The Dead Baby bar," Meredith interjects dryly.

"Every year," George continues as an intern brushes past him, "they hold this underground bike race."

I must have a sick look of horror on my face, because Izzie points out, "Don't you wonder why someone would name a bar something so disgusting?"

"Keep your pants on, Nancy Drew," Cristina replies, and I snicker into my water bottle.

George ignores the exchange. "The race is completely illegal, and-"

"Crazy," Meredith mutters. "A bunch of bike messengers racing against traffic trying to beat each other for free shots of tequila."

"All-out, no holds barred competition?" Alex muses. "Sounds like fun."

Izzie rolls her eyes. "Yeah, you would think that."

"The race doesn't have any rules," George adds warily. "Except eye-gouging- no eye-gouging."

"Eye-gouging?" I screw the lid back onto my water bottle and tuck it under my arm. "Why is _that_ the only rule?"

"Oh, great," Cristina groans. "We're going to be trapped in the Pit bandaging up idiots when we could be up in the OR?"

"What kind of people engage in a race, that has as its only rule, that you can't rip out the eyes of another human being?" George mutters, miffed.

"Crazy people," I say flatly, at the same time Alex replies, "Men, Georgie. Men."

Dr. Bailey turns to face us. "I," she announces, her hands on her hips, "need someone to get up to the OR floor; the Chief needs a right hand."

Everyone's hands shoot up, including mine.

Dr. Bailey points at George with her index finger. "George," she said tersely.

George gawks at her in surprise, but then snaps back to attention when he notices the interns have started to leave without him.

"Okay, people, rules of the trauma: Don't mingle with the ER interns; they don't know their ass from their esophagus. Sew fast, discharge fast, take bodies up to the OR yesterday. Don't let me catch you fighting over patients." Dr. Bailey places her hand on the door and pauses to scan us. "Got it?" Everyone nods their affirmative. "Okay, let's go."

We run and jostle for position. Injured bike riders are scattered everywhere- injuries ranging as mild in the waiting room, and severe as on stretchers and in rooms.

"Oh, it's like candy, but with blood," Cristina remarks cynically, "which is so much better."

Izzie gawks wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the chaotic scene unfolding, which is like something out of a horror movie, before us. "Oh, my God."

Cristina darts in the direction of one of the injured bikers, and Izzie runs to catch up, attempting to shove her out of the way.

"Mine!"

"I saw him first!"

We come to a skidding halt when we see a man, literally drenched in blood, with nails protruding from his side. And, he's very good looking, nails and blood and all.

"Ooo, I'll take that guy," Meredith murmurs, her hands poised on her hips.

"Amen." I agree, biting my lip to hide a smirk.

Alex skids past us. "No, you'll have to beat me to him first."

"Didn't know you swung both ways, Alex!" I call after him, causing laughter from other interns. If we weren't at work, I swear Alex would have done more than glare at me.

"Heads he's mine; tails he's yours."

"Why do you get to be heads?"

"Because," Alex replies, tossing the coin in the air and catching it, "I have a head, and you are tail." Meredith sighs.

"Excuse me," she says quickly, smiling thinly at the patient in bed, before closing the curtain and turning back to Alex. "How do you make _everything_ dirty?"

Alex ignores her, flipping the coin, which subsequently lands on heads. "Ha! Tails. There are plenty of other cases," Meredith declares triumphantly.

"So go get one," Alex replies, pocketing the coin. "I was here first."

I frown. "You are so juvenile."

"I am not backing down so you can do sutures all day," Meredith protests, standing her ground, "while you're up in the OR. This is a surgical case, and you know it."

"It's superficial." Alex shrugs nonchalantly. "I mean, it's cool, but it's superficial."

Meredith narrows her eyes at him. "How do you know those things didn't rupture his peritoneum?"

"Because," Alex says as the patient pulls back the curtain, "he's sitting up, and he's sitting there talking to us!"

The patient glances between the three of us, something akin to amusement flashing across his face. "'Ello." Our bickering halts at the sound of his voice. "Excuse me. I was wondering if you could take these out and sew me up so I can go and win my race?" He has a thick Australian accent.

Meredith glances at Alex, then me. "Well, we can't just pull them out," she reasons with the patient in question slowly. "I mean, we ought to-" Alex reaches over and begins yanking the nails, one by one, out of the patient's side- "do some tests."

Meredith stares at Alex in horror. "Are you out of your mind?!"

Alex just shrugs again. "It's a superficial wound," he insists for maybe the umpteenth time, tossing the nails onto the tray. "Sew him up and let him finish his race."

Meredith gawks at him, blinking in a mixture of amazement and irritation. "You- you-"

The Australian guy mimes toasting an alcoholic beverage at Alex. "Good man," he purrs, winking at me.

I turn my back to the patient, point my finger at my throat and make an exaggerated gagging noise.

While I'm washing my hands in the scrub room, George walks to the sink nearest to mine.

"Hi." I dry my hands on a brown paper towel and snap on blue gloves.

"Hi." George pulls on a mask and ties the back. "Sir," he addresses Dr. Webber, who's kneeling on the floor and scrubbing the tiles, "Dr. Bailey sent me in here to assist you. Should I scrub in…?"

Dr. Webber doesn't avert his eyes from the floor. "No, I'm stuck here all day," he replies, continuing to scrub. "I need you and Leslie on the floor, monitoring my pre-op and post-op patients."

George stares at Dr. Webber. "Oh," he says simply.

Dr. Webber finally lifts his gaze from the floor and narrows his eyes at both of us. "You got a problem with that, O'Malley? Etheridge?"

I shake my head jerkily, and George stammers, "Oh, uh, no, sir."

As George and I prepare to leave, Dr. Webber adds, "Oh, a mate of mine in 4451, Lloyd Mackie? Give him whatever he needs."

George nods curtly. "Yes, sir."

Once we're in the hallway, I say dryly, "Well, this should be an adventure."

My assumption is confirmed when we walk into 4451 and discover Lloyd Mackie- an old man with salt 'n' pepper-colored hair- in his bed lighting a cigarette.

"Mr. Mackie!" George scrambles to the bedside, reaching for the cigarette. "No smoking! No smoking!"

Mr. Mackie raises his eyebrows. "Why not?" he inquires, staring at George expectantly.

"Oh my God." George pulls a chair from the corner to the side of the bed and sits down. "You're in a hospital."

Mr. Mackie sets the lighter aside. "Your point being…?"

George and I exchange apprehensive looks, and George chooses his words carefully while speaking. "I don't know if you've listened to the surgeon-general lately," he says, lowering his voice, "say, in the past twenty years, but smoking is bad. Smoking will kill you."

Mr. Mackie sinks into the pillows. "Liver cancer will kill me," he murmurs, taking a drag off his cigarette. "Smoking will just speed up the process."

"Are you suicidal?" I ask Mr. Mackie, and George looks over at me in shock. "Well, if he's suicidal or purposefully self-harming, it's something we need to take note of. Maybe, move him to the psych ward…?"

Mr. Mackie just glares at me in annoyance, and George attempts to reason with him: "You're at the top of the donor list for a new liver. There's hope."

"Sweetheart," Mr. Mackie replies, blowing a smoke ring, "I've been at the top of the donor's list for eight months. I'm not in the batter's cage. I'm in a dugout, about to be traded."

So, Meatloaf wasn't the only one who used baseball metaphors.

 _Hopelessness_. _Self_ - _harm_. _Apathy_. _Cynical_. I discreetly jot down these adjectives on my notepad and tuck it under my arm, making a mental note to discuss Mr. Mackie's suicidal tendencies with the psych ward.

"You like baseball?" George proposes lamely.

"No," Mr. Mackie says apprehensively, inhaling more smoke.

"Oh." George and Mr. Mackie stare at each other for a few prolonged seconds, before George says, fidgeting in his seat, "Um, well, um, the Chief wanted me to look in on you."

Mr. Mackie's wrinkled, yellow face breaks out into a rare smile. "Richard's a dear old friend. He's been my doctor for thirty years."

"Well, whatever you need, I'm your man," George reassures Mr. Mackie, uncertainty creeping into his voice. "Just name it."

Mr. Mackie blows another smoking-caterpillar-style smoke ring. "I'm sure I'll think of something."

George gestures for me to follow him into the hallway. I oblige.

He closes the door and leans against it. "Okay, what the hell was that?"

I feign innocence. "What the hell was what?" I stick my notepad into my pocket and lean against the windowsill.

"You know…" George nods at Mr. Mackie. "Why were you interrogating him?"

"Oh, come on, George." I sigh, tapping the front of my foot on the floor. "The man acts like he's got nothing else to live for. He's in there killing himself with smoking. Wouldn't you be the least bit concerned, too?" George bites his lip thoughtfully, his head resting against the door. "He's, what, only in his forties? Doesn't he have a wife, or- or kids? A dog? I don't know, someone?" I don't wait for him to answer. "If he continues to display suicidal tendencies," I say softly, lowering my voice, "I'm further classifying this as a mental health case."

George looks like he's going to object, but after a moment's pause, he says, "Fair enough."

George and I turn to stare through the window at Mr. Mackie, who's holding his cigarette over the bedside table as the final flame begins sizzle into the ashtray.

Sometimes, it's better to burn out than to fade away.

The voices is low but the tension is high when I step into the next patient's room.

Izzie and Cristina hover over the bed where a pale, frail-looking man lies, completely motionless and almost vacant besides his chest rising and falling in sync with his breathing.

"Dr. Stevens," I greet, coming to Izzie and Cristina's sides. "Dr. Yang."

"Dr. Etheridge," the duo respond in unison, then continue on with their conversation. From what I can hear, it sounds like a heated debate. Whatever the subject is, Izzie sounds very passionate about it, while Cristina radiates a more calculating, professional manner.

"There's no corneal reflexes," Cristina states matter-of-factly.

"It's been fifty-five minutes," Izzie argues, clasping her notepad against her chest. "If he doesn't respond to the tests in the next five hours, what? We're supposed to just stand here and watch him die?"

Cristina remains calm and firm, as always. "If he doesn't respond to the tests," she reasons coolly, "it's because he's already dead."

"Technically." It's clear that Izzie isn't going to budge. "Legally."

"Actually, Izzie," Cristina corrects her, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Actually dead."

Izzie's lower lip quivers, and she looks like she's on the verge of tears. "He's breathing." Her voice cracks. "He has a heartbeat."

"Look at his EEG." Cristina gestures to the motionless man on the bed. "There's no higher brain function. He'll never talk, move, or think again. There's no one in there. Think like a doctor, Izzie."

"He could wake up," Izzie insists, her passion not wavering. "What about a miracle? There are medical miracles, you know."

Cristina opens her mouth to protest, but the door opens, causing us to turn to inspect the newcomer.

Dr. Shepherd crosses the threshold. "I know," he acknowledges sagely, shutting the door behind him and leaning against it, his arms folded across his chest, "you're right. Miracles happen. People do wake up; that's why we do a series of tests over a set number of hours so, when we call the time of death, we know that we've done everything in our power to make sure it's actually his time of death. But there isn't going to be any miracles." He purses his lips, appearing somber. "This is the hard part. To stand around as surgeons, and not cut. That's what 'do no harm' means."

"Wish he'd just go to the light already, so I can get on another case," Cristina mutters, though loud enough for us all to hear.

Izzie and I stare at her in horror.

"Oh, I'm the devil because I'd rather be in surgery instead of standing watch over the death squad?" Cristina scoffs. "It's depressing."

"But you don't have to say that," I hiss at her, annoyed at her insensitivity. I understand bluntness, but come on. That crosses the line, even for Cristina.

"Look at his sneakers." Izzie gazes at the man, her face solemn. "They're brand new." She trails her fingers across a section of his shirt. "And somebody sewed this tear in his shirt, and he has one of those electronic key cards. He belongs to someone. An hour ago he was out there-" she gestures to the hallway- "alive. To simply stand there and watch him die…" She turns her stare to Cristina pleadingly, her eyes wet.

"Would be a cruel and unusual punishment," I murmur, staring down at the helpless man.

"Would be a waste of life," Cristina agrees, her face unreadable.

Izzie nods, relieved. "Exactly."

"It would be a waste of organs." Cristina walks out and disappears into the bright hallway.

Izzie and I stare after her in shock at the place where she once stood.

Later, Izzie, with Cristina trailing behind her, corners me, begging me to help her find the family of the "dead" man.

"Why?" I ask her, kneeling down to tie my shoelaces that had come undone. "He crossed over yet?"

Izzie scowls. "No," she replies, a hard edge to her voice. "Dr. Bailey said that if we can find his family and get their consent, we can harvest the organs." Her face lights up with renewed hope. "We can save him!"

"That's great and all," I say, standing, "but what do you want me to do?"

"Identify the family," Izzie explains. "So we can perform the surgery and save his life."

"Izzie, you know that by the time that if I do locate his family, he could already be dead?" I reason with her. "It's not like I can just call them up in the local phone book. What am I supposed to say anyway? 'Hey, your son/father is lying brain-dead in the hospital and we need to get your permission to cut into him'?" Cristina and Izzie stare at me blankly. "No family wants to get any news like that. Receiving a call like that, especially out of the blue, is traumatizing. Anyway, in any case, if he does wake up, he'll be in a vegetative state for the rest of his life. I'd rather die than live that way. I'd be very angry if the doctors tried to save me. It would be inhumane and selfish to force him to live that way for the rest of his natural born life."

Izzie attempts to protest, but Cristina raises her hand. "I agree with Leslie," she states. "Besides, we can donate his organs if he dies. I'm sure there are plenty of people in need of an organ donor."

Izzie's jaw tightens. "You two are heartless," she informs us coldly, her voice wavering." She turns her back to us, and I hear her sniffle. "You know that?"

Before she can storm off, I gently grab her shoulders and turn her so she faces me. "Izzie," I say softly. "We're not trying to be cold or heartless. I'm being realistic. Of course I feel sorry for the poor man and his family. I feel sorry for anyone involved in this situation. No one should ever have to suffer. Cristina's right. You do have to think like a doctor. You can't get emotionally involved with your patients. It's just too risky." She stares at me blankly. "Alright." I allow my hands to fall at my sides and exhale. "I'll make you a deal. If he wakes up within the next-" I check my watch- "2 hours, I'll search for his family."

Izzie breaks into a relieved smile. She looks like she's about to hug me.

"This is all very risky, you know," I grumble as she does a triumphant dance. "I'm going against doctor's orders. You're putting my career on the line here."

"A man's life is on the line," Izzie reminds me, a grim statement. "But he's going to wake up, I just know he is." She turns to leave, but not before throwing a "You're not going to regret this!" over her shoulder.

So why do I feel like I am?

I pad past the main desk, where Alex is hovering over the computer, flicking through a binder filled with files.

I nod at him. "Dr. Karev."

He either fails to see or chooses to ignore my greeting. Judging by his rigid body language that increased when I entered the room, I can only guess that it is the latter. Whatever. I have more important things to do, anyway.

A flash of movement underneath the desk catches my eye.

I turn around to see George huddling under the desk, his back pressed against the wall and his knees pulled to his face.

"What the hell are you doing, George?" I walk over to the desk and crouch down to his level to face him. "Playing hide-and-go-seek?"

"Yeah." Alex smirks down at George. "What're you doing?"

"Hiding," George whispers, his gaze darting around the halls before retaliating back to us. "There's this VIP patient; he likes me."

Alex and I exchange amused glances.

"Well, that's good, right?" Alex closes the binder and tucks it onto one of the shelves.

George's face flushes bright red. "He likes me, likes me."

"Like-likes you?" I echo incredulously. "What are you, twelve?"

"Go for it, man. Get yours." Alex jots something down on his notepad. "I'm down with the rainbow."

I snicker, and George's face turns even redder (if that's possible), his eyes widening.

Alex's head snaps up from his book. "Oh. You're not gay?"

George swallows. "No," he squeaks defensively, staring at the floor.

"Really?" Alex is bemused. "Dude, sorry." He leaves as Izzie and Cristina amble walk to the desk.

George holds out a disk. "Cristina?"

Cristina comes over, frowning, and George drops the disk. "Do you- do you think-" George blushes again, avoiding meeting eyes with Cristina. "Does Meredith think I'm gay?"

Cristina raises her eyebrows. "Are you?"

George's expression darkens. "No!"

Cristina studies him. "Really?" she says dubiously, her face a mixture of amusement and confusion.

George looks frustrated.

I pat his shoulder sympathetically. "Poor George," I crow. "Honey, remember, like I said- there are worse things in the world than being gay." I turn to Izzie. "How's it going?"

A woman comes over, and Izzie turns to her, depositing John Doe's hotel key card. "I found this on a John Doe," she informs the woman breathlessly. "It's a hotel key card? I've called the police and they're going to send someone over. Maybe they can figure out what hotel he's staying at; get his ID from there. Could you…?" She stares at the woman hopefully, her eyes wet.

The woman nods and retrieves the key card from Izzie. "I'll make sure the police get it."

Izzie breathes a sigh of relief. "Okay," she says softly. "It's just- it's really important. We only have a few hours to declare him and I'd really like to find his family."

The woman raises her eyebrows. "You want their permission for an organ donation?"

George looks up in interest.

"I just…" Izzie stares at her feet. "Really want to find them." She turns and leaves, and Cristina and I stare after in surprise.

"You have a potential donor?" George queries, and Cristina nods. "What's his blood type?"

"Uh…" Cristina thinks for a moment, then says, "O-neg."

George pulls out a folder and begins flipping through it, his face unreadable.

I lean over his shoulder. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" George gestures to the folder. "Finding a donor for John Doe."

I nod. "Oh."

George glances at me, smiles. "What do you say we find it together?"

I take a deep breath. "Okay."

I reach for my own folder.

George and I continue to research organ donation for John Doe during lunch.

"Ah-ha." George points to one of the pages in the folder, and I lean closer to get a better look. "This guy's liver matches John Doe's to a T."

I examine the information and come to the same conclusion. "The only step left," I declare, biting into my leftover-from-last-night tuna casserole, "is to locate the family and gain their consent."

I feel someone standing behind me. When I turn around in my chair, tuna casserole hanging out of the corner of my mouth, I see Cristina, Izzie, and Meredith standing in front of George and I in a line.

George stops mid-chew. "What'd I do?" he asks through a mouthful of sandwich.

Meredith leans forward. "How close a match for the liver of your guy to our John Doe?"

George swallows his sandwich. "Very," he tells her. "Same type; same size. UNO's couldn't find a better match. Why?"

"And he's the chief's VIP, right?" Izzie inquires, still sounding hopeful.

George nods, puzzled. "Right."

Cristina grins. "How much would you kill to be in on a transplant surgery?"

"You underestimate me." George doesn't share Cristina's smile. "I'm not your baby. I'm your colleague. You don't have to manipulate me. If you want something, all you have to do is ask."

I whistle, polishing off my casserole with a swig of water.

"We want you," Izzie tells him, very seriously, "to go over Burke's head to the chief."

George looks terrified. "Ask me something easier."

"Don't be a baby." I pinch George's wrist. "I'll do it if you do it."

George's face shifts from terrified to helpless.

George and I wait for Dr. Webber in the office.

I check my wristwatch. "He's still not here."

"He'll be here." George sounds way more confident than I feel. "It's been ten minutes," I whisper back. "We're wasting our time. I could be in surgery, right now-"

"Okay, if he doesn't come within another-" George checks his own watch. "-ten minutes, we can leave. Deal?"

Before I can object or agree, George says tentatively, "Sir?"

Dr. Webber is standing on the threshold, staring at us expectantly.

"O'Malley," Dr. Webber greets, then looks at me. "Etheridge."

I nod at him. "Dr. Webber," I say quietly. Something about Dr. Webber intimidates me. Like I'm about to get sent to the principal's office or something.

Dr. Webber looks us up and down. "How's Mackie?"

I consider informing Dr. Webber of Mackie's suicidal tendencies, but think better of it and decide to tell him later. If I tell him about Mackie now, he may not let me in on John Doe's case.

"Fine," George responds tentatively. "Sir, that's actually what we want to talk to you about. I-I kind of think that- Leslie and I-"

"O'Malley, I'm not getting any younger," Dr. Webber interjects impatiently.

George gulps. "We found Mackie a liver."

Dr. Webber turns thoughtful, and I feel the first rays of hope shine through me.

George and I stare through the window at the open-heart surgery that Alex and Burke are performing on John Doe.

"I seriously hate that guy," Cristina seethes, fuming.

"Alex is vermin," Meredith agrees wholeheartedly. "That surgery is ours."

"At least Burke is doing the surgery," Izzie points out. "I don't care about Alex. George? Leslie? Y'all did good."

"I'm going to have to dodge Burke for the rest of my career," George complains, taut with anxiety. "He could kill me and make it look like an accident."

"He'd fire me," I deadpan, sucking in my breath. "Like that." I snap my fingers in Izzie's face.

The woman Izzie spoke to earlier regarding John Doe entered the room.

"The police called," she announces, and all heads snap in her direction. "They've identified your John Doe. His wife is on the way."

Dr. Webber nudges Lloyd Mackie awake gently. "Mackie?" he asks as Mackie's eyes slowly but surely flutter open. "How're we treating you?"

"Oh, fine." Mackie sits up and stretches his arms over his head, grunting with the effort. "Except that beautiful boy won't let me smoke. You should reprimand him. Make him change bedpans."

George blushes furiously, and Dr. Webber laughs. "Mackie," he says, clapping his hands on the said man's shoulders, "that beautiful boy may have found you a liver." I clear my throat, and Dr. Webber adds, not unkindly, "All with a little help from Dr. Etheridge over here."

Mackie stops smiling, glances up at Dr. Webber, then turns to George and I. His face breaks, and and he hides his face with his hands, desperately stifling tears of joy.

In the hallway, George stops me. "Hey, uh." He pauses to clear his throat. "Um. Izzie, Meredith, and me usually do, you know, a little get together after work at her place on Fridays, and, since it's Friday, I-I was wondering if- if-"

"First of all," I stop him mid-sentence, "it's Izzie, Meredith, and I." He sighs and leans against the wall. "Second of all, spit it out, George."

George takes a deep breath and finally says, "Would you like to come over and, you know, hang out with me, I mean, uh, us?"

During high school, I wasn't a very social person. In fact, I wasn't a social person at all. I had no friends and didn't have a desire to make any. I didn't agree with the social norms and didn't understand how other girls my age acted or interacted with each other- I just didn't know what made them "click." I never had a boyfriend, nor did I want one. If I did get a boyfriend, we were just going to break up eventually, so what was the point? High school relationships never lasted. Besides, my world relied on logic, science, and facts. I had no time for silly, short-lived "romances." I wanted to be a doctor, and damned if I didn't become one.

I didn't go out partying or drinking. I spoke only in monosyllables at school and only answered questions in class discussions if I was called on, taking refuge in the very back of the classroom with a book. I didn't get invited out much, but when I did, I always had an excuse of being "busy" ready. So, eventually, girls at school just stopped asking to hang out and gradually stopped speaking to me. I'd completely wasted my high school career indulged in books and writing, while other teens dated and partied, I'd pushed people away. It's no wonder I have no idea how to socialize.

Now, out of habit, I automatically run through the list of excuses in my head and realize that I have none. "Actually," I say, smiling, "I'd love to."

I arrive at Meredith's apartment at approximately seven P.M. I'd brought over some snacks, although Meredith had insisted that they'd order in or make something at home. Old habits die hard, I guess.

I walk to the apartment hefting the armful of crackers and chips that I'd bought at the local gas station. Meredith is opening her door when she notices me.

"Hi," I say as I step onto the porch.

"Hi," Meredith repeats, looking me up and down. "I told you you didn't have to bring anything."

I shrug. "It's the right thing to do."

Meredith sighs, then breaks into a smile. "Fair enough," she says at last, and steps back to allow me inside. She drops her keys and removes her jacket, then offers to remove mine.

I shake my head and tell her that I have it all under control.

She raises her eyebrows but nods. I at least allow her to take the snacks into the living room.

After I remove my own jacket, I kick off my boots and head to the living room, where George and Izzie are huddled in front of the TV, sorting through a pile of old VHS tapes.

"Oo, this one is skin grafting!" Izzie holds up one tape.

"Skin grafting?" George's attention snaps to Izzie. "No way! I've never seen that done before."

"Are those my mother's surgical tapes?" Meredith appears in the doorway, arms tightly folded across her chest.

"We should watch the skin grafting one first." George takes the tape from Izzie and inserts into the VHS player.

Meredith examines the sea of VHS's and cases scattered across the floor. "Where did all this stuff come from?"

"Oh, I unpacked some of your mother's things," Izzie replies, opening another case. "I was upset. And when I'm upset, I like to nest."

Meredith stares at her for a few seconds, then begins taking pictures off the wall.

Izzie squeals with excitement. "Hemipelvectomy!"

"I think we should watch this one first," George agrees, setting the other tapes aside.

"Your mother," I tell Meredith as she scrambles to remove more photos, "was my idol in high school. I was absolutely obsessed with her. To the point where it drove my family nuts."

"No. No." Meredith holds both hands up. "We are not watching my mother's surgical tapes, we're not unpacking boxes, and we're not having long conversations where we celebrate the moments of our lives." Izzie's beer bottle popping open punctuates Meredith's sentence. "And use a coaster!"

"I ordered Chinese food," George volunteers lamely.

Izzie and I burst out laughing.

"I hate Chinese food!" Meredith yells from the top of the stairs.

"George says you get together every Friday," I say after our giggles die down. "What do you do?"

"What do you mean, 'what do we do'?" George inserts the new tape into the player. "We do what people usually do on Friday nights."

I raise my eyebrows. "Which is?"

Izzie and George exchange glances. "You really have no idea?" Izzie asks, her face puzzled.

I had no idea that was a bad thing. "No." They both stare at me as if I'm some new unearthed species.

I sigh. "Look, I wasn't very social in high school, okay? I didn't even have a boyfriend. I never went to prom-"

"You never went to prom?" Izzie's eyes widen, like this is the most shocking news she's ever heard.

"I thought it was lame and a waste of time," I state almost defensively. "I haven't even had my first taste of alcohol."

Izzie and George huddle together and exchange whispers.

"I'm right here, you know," I point out, irritability creeping in. "Whatever you have to say, just say it."

"From now on," Izzie says at last, turning to me, "you are coming over with us every Friday night." I open my mouth to protest, but she interjects, "No excuses. You're gonna learn to have fun."

"I know how to have fun," I protest, miffed.

"I mean, fun outside of work," she corrected, and I sigh.

"And," Izzie adds, opening another beer, "we are going to fix the 'I've never had alcohol' thing. Right now."

"Guys, I really don't know about this," I say quietly, but Izzie is already shoving the open bottle at my face. "This is totally peer pressure, you know."

"Drink! Drink! Drink!" Izzie and George chant in unison, as if we're at a high school football game.

I roll my eyes and scowl at them, but tilt the beer bottle back and take a swig, the fizzy, sparkly liquid going down my throat.

Izzie and George stare at me with equal interest.

"Well?" Izzie presses, her face pinched with curiosity.

I gulp the rest, then slam the now-empty bottle on the floor. "Gimme another."

Izzie laughs. "Told ya!" she sings, getting to her feet. "I'll be right back."

George moves closer to me on the floor, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back against the couch.

I stare at him. "What are you doing?"

"Sitting next to you," he replies, pushing several scattered VHS tapes out of his way.

"Why?" I pick up one of the tapes and read the synopsis.

"Why?" he repeats incredulously. "Because we're friends. Right?"

I nod and allow myself to smile, relieved that it was mutual.

Izzie walks in carrying two beers and a bag of Goldfish crackers, handing one beer to me and snapping open the Goldfish bag, setting it between us to share. After I finish off my beer, I begin stuffing the cheese-flavored crackers into my mouth, my eyes not leaving the TV screen. I'm so engrossed with the TV that I'm startled when Cristina, carrying a pizza box, plops down next to George and I.

"Okay, this is the best part," Izzie remarks, skipping the greeting. "Watch. This is where she pulls a block of skin down over the face."

Meredith re-appears in the doorway of the living room, staring at us expectantly.

"We were-" George begins, his facial expression akin to a deer caught in the headlights.

Meredith smiles. "Hi."

"We were just-" George gestures to the TV. "Cristina made us."

Cristina, who is in the middle of shoving a pizza slice in her mouth, looks very unimpressed with his statement.

"What are we watching?" Meredith sits down beside Cristina and reaches into the bag of popcorn. "Oo. This is the one where my mother-"

"Literally pulls this guy's face off!" Izzie, who's on her third beer and clearly way past tipsy, squeals in anticipation.

"Yeah." Meredith chews her popcorn, staring at the TV screen.

Her mother pulls back a large chunk of skin off the patient's face, revealing bloody bones, and we all reel back and audibly groan in disgust.

Cristina seems to be the only one immune to the gross factor. "Whoa!" she cries, waving her pizza slice at the TV in amazement.

George and I look at each other and laugh.

And in that moment, I find myself wishing that the night would never end.


	4. Episode 4: No Man's Land

**Song selection: "Sister Christian"~ Night Ranger**

Episode 4

 _No Man's Land_

The sound of car doors slamming and keys jingling echo throughout the parking lot. Voices of interns mingle as we sleepily shuffle toward the front doors of the hospital.

I spot George, Izzie, and Meredith walking down the sidewalk together and eventually catch up.

"You don't understand," George insists, his face a bright shade of red. "Me gonads, you ovaries."

"Oh, that reminds me," Izzie recalls absentmindedly, as if George hadn't spoken. "We are out of tampons."

George's blush deepens. "You're parading through the bathroom in your underwear," he sputters, embarrassment evident in his voice, "when I'm in the shower!"

I look at Izzie. "What's the 411?"

"Ignore him." Izzie waves a dismissive hand. "He's just being dramatic. Can you add that to your list, please?"

"What?!" George cries incredulously, his cheeks hot.

"I assume you're all living together now?" I inquire, and Izzie nods. "Cool."

"To the list," Meredith elaborates as we step through the doorway. "It's your turn."

"I am a man!" George protests, his eyes widened. "I don't buy girl products! I don't want you walking in while I'm in the shower, and I don't want to see you in your underwear."

"Wow, that's some fragile masculinity you got there," I remark, and Meredith and Izzie snicker behind their palms, only stopping when George glares at them, obviously not sharing their amusement.

"It doesn't bother me, okay?" Izzie shakes her head. "Look at me in my underwear, George. Take all the time you need." We step into the hallway, leaving George speechless and stunned in the doorway.

Interns gather in the locker room, preparing for the day.

Dr. Bailey, already clad in her uniform, stands in the doorway. "You," she begins, walking into the room, "are the first person they see in the morning. You say 'please.' You say 'thank you.' You apologize for waking them up."

Alex stumbles in the room, earning a glare from Dr. Bailey, who then continues, "You make them feel good about you. Why is that important? Cause then they'll talk to you and tell you what's wrong. Why is that important? Because then you can tell you're attending what they need to know during rounds. And why is that important? Because if you make your resident look bad, she'll torture you until you beg for your mama. Now get out there. I want pre-rounds done be 5:30 am."

We shuffle out into the already-bustling hallway, weaving our way through the crowd of interns.

Alex catches up with us. "Morning, Dr. Model," he chirps at Izzie, feigning cheerfulness.

"Dr. Evil Spawn," Izzie returns coldly, avoiding all eye contact with Alex.

Alex steps in front of Izzie, blocking her, and shines his flashlight on her stomach, illuminating the silhouette of a rose tattoo on her abdomen underneath her smock. "Oo, nice tat," he remarks dryly. "They airbrush that out for catalogs?"

"I don't know," Izzie snaps, her gaze darkening. "What do they do for the 666 on your skull?"

"Oo," Alex crows, smirking and raising his eyebrows.

"I'd better get good patients today," Meredith complains to Cristina. "Yesterday I had two guys with colostomies who needed dressing changes every 5 minutes."

"That's nothing," I reply as we round another corner. "Try performing prostate cancer tests on an 80-year-old man who smells like fungus."

"I'm gonna be in surgery," Cristina breathes wistfully, her facial expression dreamy. "Today's my day."

Meredith arches her eyebrows. "On what?"

Cristina smirks. "Like I'd tell you."

"What do you know?" Meredith's curiosity morphs into annoyance.

"I know," Cristina replies as we step through the double doorway in the middle of the hallway, "that I was here at four o'clock and you weren't here till four-thirty."

"Tell me," Meredith practically pleads.

"No." Cristina shakes her head. "I'm not the intern who's screwing an attending."

What? Voluntarily, I sneak a glance at Meredith, who's blushing vigorously. "I am not screwing…" she sputters, but Cristina is long gone.

On the way to the ER section of the hospital, I pass George, who's leaning against the wall, his head in his hands.

I pivot and do a 180. "You okay?" I ask tentatively, stepping closer to him.

George uncovers his face to reveal bright red cheeks. "I'm fine," he squeaks out, ducking his head.

"George, you're blushing," I remark with a chuckle. "What is up with you?"

George sucks in his breath. "Izziekeepswalkingaroundthehouseinherunderwear," he blurts out, hiding his face again.

I raise my eyebrows. "Come again? This time, in English."

George gulps. "Izzie, she keeps walking around the house in her underwear," he elaborates, the blush refusing to fade.

"And?" I stare at him quizzically.

"And-" George takes a deep breath, then looks at his feet.

I tilt my head to one side. "Well, what's the problem?"

"The problem is…" he sputters, stumbling over his words. "I-I don't know."

"You like her?" I inquire, half-smirking.

"She's not the one I have feelings for…" he mumbles, hiding his face again.

"Well, then who is it?" I ask, my impatience increasing.

"She wouldn't believe me if I told her," George murmurs, the blush on his cheeks finally dissipating.

I open my mouth to question more, but Dr. Bailey strides past us and barks, "O'Malley, Etheridge- get Karev and head down to trauma. Shepherd needs you."

George and I wait until Dr. Bailey disappears down the hallway before stepping inside the elevator.

George presses the button repeatedly, even though the doors are closed and the elevator is moving. I tap my foot, my shoe clicking against the linoleum floor. Elevators are always so freaking awkward. There's no tacky elevator music to fill up the unbearable silence, either. I wish there was a script that told one what to say and do in an elevator.

Ding! The silver metal doors part, revealing the trauma floor.

I let out a breath, a sigh of relief, that I didn't realize I'd been holding. Finally. We step out of the elevator, turn a corner, and enter the trauma room, where Meredith, Alex, and Derek are already surrounding the hospital bed where a panic-stricken man lies.

"I can't see my hands," the man mumbles, staring at his hands as his face contorts in horror. A dozen, long metal nails are imbedded in his skull. My stomach churns at the sight of blood, and I turn away until I regain my bearings.

"Oh my God!" George breathes, paling a little. "He's conscious."

"Breathe deeply, George," Alex tells him nonchalantly, as if narrating a guided meditation. "You won't pass out."

"Use four mg's of morphine," Derek instructs matter-of-factly. "Titrate up to 10. You know what? I don't even want him to move."

"I can't see," the man repeats, although he's wide awake and staring directly at his hands.

"It's okay," Meredith reassures him tentatively, even though she looks slightly on edge herself. "We need you to be very still, Mr…?"

"Cruz," Derek interjects, glancing at the man. "Jorge Cruz. He tripped and fell down a flight of steps holding nail gun."

"Sick," Alex mutters, shaking his head in a mixture of disgust and awe.

"Well, he hit the nail right on the head," I remark, causing Meredith to snicker, and everyone turns and looks at me. "What?"

"Completely unprofessional and inappropriate, Dr. Etheridge," Derek reprimands as George and Meredith continue to laugh quietly. "Consider that your final warning." Derek glares at them, and their laughter subsides.

"Sorry." I nod jerkily, blushing vigorously. "You're right. That was uncalled for." That was total social suicide.

"Somehow," Derek continues, redirecting the attention back to Jorge, "he managed to miss a blood vessel. That's a minor miracle. Optic nerve's been affected." Derek places his hand on Jorge's right shoulder. "Can you feel this?" Jorge shakes his head, his eyes wide and owl-like with panic. "Numbness on his right side," Derek informs us, glancing over his shoulder at the interns. "What's our immediate concern?"

"Infection," Meredith replies warily, her gaze not retaliating from Jorge.

"Right," Derek confirms, nodding. "I wanna be pulling these nails out in the next half-hour. I need a CT."

"CTs are down," a new voice announces, and we turn to the doorway, where a new doctor standing.

Derek looks up. "What?"

"They exchanged them last night," the doctor elaborates, gawking at Jorge, but trying to not make it obvious that she's gawking at Jorge. "Computers crashed; have them back up by 1:00."

"So typical," Derek mutters, his annoyance obvious. "So what are the options?"

"An MRI?" George suggests tentatively, and everyone stares at him in horror.

"No!" Derek erupts, shocked.

"Brilliant," Alex remarks dryly, sarcasm evident in his voice. "The guy's got nails in his head. Let's put him in a giant magnet. You want films from three axis points and a C-arm in surgery."

"Excellent," Derek replies, his tone neutral and face unreadable. "You guys dig up research and find out if this has ever happened before. Go!"

Several interns exit the room, scurrying hurriedly into the hallway.

"My wife, my wife, my wife," Jorge chants, his words slow and slurred, as if he's drunk.

"She's on the way," Derek reassures him, staring out into the hallway.

Meredith leans over Jorge's shoulder, placing her hand on the side of the bed. "Your wife is on the way, Jorge," she reassures him soothingly, but that doesn't seem to ease his panic.

"Stay with him," Derek tells Meredith and I as he exits the room, "keep him calm and look for changes."

"Ohhh…" Jorge moans, a long, drawn-out moan. "I can't see."

"You'd say your health's been good recently?" Meredith asks, attempting to make conversation.

"He's got a million nails in his head," I remind her. "How do you think his health is?"

"Maybe some headaches," Jorge says, blinking robotically. "Nothing compared to now. Sona, that's my wife. Sona, she'll say 'Why you think they call it a gun, moron?' She hates the damn thing."

Meredith smiles thinly. "Within reason."

"What were you doing, playing with a gun on the stairs, anyway?" I ask, frowning.

Derek and a young, black-haired woman enter the room before Jorge can answer my question.

The woman's eyes widen at the sight of Jorge. "Baby?" Panic lacing her tone, she runs over, gasping. I don't have to ask to know that this woman is his wife.

"Sona," Jorge murmurs.

Sona's worried expression shifts to an angry one. "You are in so much trouble!"

Yeah, she's definitely his wife.

Meredith and I pull Sona aside in the hallway, closing the door behind us.

Worry creases Sona's face. "Will he be able to see again?"

Meredith's own face is grim. "We won't know until the nails come out."

Sona sighs. "Did he tell you he takes photos?" she asks, glancing at Jorge through the window. "Beautiful photos. It's his hobby. I just got him a digital camera. Now he can't stop, you know? He always has it out; always taking pictures of me." She chuckles softly, still not disguising her worry.

I smile at her. "I'm sure the pictures are wonderful, Mrs. Cruz," I tell her softly.

"Jorge said he's been having headaches," Meredith states, looking back at Sona. "Can you tell me about them? Have they been recent?"

"Um, I'm not sure." Sona pauses, thinking. "Maybe the last couple of months."

"Have you seen him experience dizziness or disorientation?" Meredith inquires.

"Yes." Sona nods mechanically. "Yes, I have."

I leave Meredith to interview Sona and head to the research room, where George and Alex are digging for information about Jorge's injury. Alex is sitting behind the counter aimlessly flipping through a magazine and quietly humming to himself. George is fumbling through a pile of books on the desktop.

"How's it going?" I ask, coming to George's side.

"It's going." George slams the book shut and returns it to its place, then gets to his feet. "You coming?" he asks, glancing at Alex.

"Dude." Alex flips another magazine page. "I don't need an escort. Go. Go ahead."

George and I walk to the surgical room, where Jorge is currently being operated on.

We sit down in the gallery, staring through the glass at the operating table.

"Where are they?" Cristina plops down in the seat beside us. "Move over."

"They're just pulling him out," George replies. "Hey, I heard you got a Whipple."

"A maybe Whipple," Cristina corrects warily. "Burke is running my butt off. Oh, man. Look at those films!"

We look closer at the films, which display Jorge's head filled with nails.

Alex performs a faux evil laugh. "It's Hellraiser."

Cristina rolls her eyes. "There goes the third grade."

Dr. Burke pokes his head in the door. "Dr. Yang, did you put in the bloodwork?"

Cristina sits up. "Oh, right before I got here."

"Hmm," Dr. Burke hums, eyeing Cristina. "Take her to Radiology for the MRI. Beep me when you're done." Cristina sighs tiredly, like a teenager who's just been asked to do chores. "You want the Whipple, right?"

"Yeah." Cristina leaves, and Izzie enters, sitting down next to George.

She hands him a fistful of money. "Here," she says nonchalantly, leaning back in her chair and crossing one leg over the other. "My share of the grocery money. When are you going?"

George takes the money from her. "Tonight." He looks like he's about to protest.

"Okay, seriously, George." Izzie raises her palm in the air. "Please don't."

George's blush returns. "Yeah, could we not talk about it here?"

"What, tampons?" Izzie says, and I grin knowingly at George.

"Did you not hear a word I said?" George sighs in frustration.

"You're a man," Izzie says, rolling her eyes. "We know."

"Talk about shrinking the salamander," Alex remarks dryly.

The hallways buzz with usual morning activity. Meredith, Derek, and I walk into Jorge's room. Jorge is sitting upright in bed wearing a hospital gown. He's awake, and a white gauze is wrapped around his head. Sona, clad in a red dress, is sitting in the chair beside his bed. Their hands are entwined.

"Tell them what color my dress is, Jorge," Sona says softly when she sees us.

Jorge squeezes her hand. "I'd know that answer even if I couldn't see."

"Can you tell me what you had for breakfast on Monday?" Derek asks, remaining cool and calculating.

"Cheese omelet," Jorge replies matter-of-factly. "And on Sunday. And on Saturday. And on Friday. Sona gets up every morning and makes me a cheese omelet."

Sona smiles. "It's the only thing he likes," she explains with a soft chuckle.

"It's the only thing you know how to cook," Jorge teases playfully, and Sona kisses him on the cheek.

Derek, Meredith, and I peer at the film of the MRI of Jorge's brain we'd taken prior to the surgery.

"There." Derek points his index finger at the grey matter on one side of Jorge's brain. "That's a tumor. It's midline near the hypothalamus."

"Damn," Meredith hisses in frustration.

A pit of dread forms at the bottom of my stomach, and I swallow the lump in the back of my throat.

We return to Sona and Jorge's room, where the said couple are conversing softly.

We sit down and give them the news.

"Best practice, probably to remove the tumor," Derek informs them as worry flashes over both of their faces. "'Probably' because I can't get it all. 99%, but not all of it. Radiation and chemo, you're looking at five-to-ten good years."

"Let's do it," Jorge agrees, without missing a beat.

"You haven't heard the downside," Derek interjects. "See, the tumor is located in a part of your brain where your memory and your personality resides. And because of the fuzzy edges of this type of tumor, I have to cut out a lot. Jorge-" his voice becomes reasonable, yet comforting- "you stand a good chance of losing your memories. Of losing who you are."

Sona's eyes brim with impending tears. "Is there any other way?"

"The alternative," Derek says with a grim sigh, "is gamma or cyberknife with treatment with focus radiation. It's less evasive. There's little chance of memory loss or losing himself, but it would only give Jorge maybe three-to-five years."

Sona places her palm against her mouth. "Three-to-five years?" she echoes incredulously, her voice hitching.

"This is an incredibly difficult decision," Derek reasons empathetically. "If you have anymore questions or you need to talk to me, I'm here. Okay?" He adds a small smile.

We step out of the room and allow Sona and Jorge to discuss their options. I peer into the window. Sona is crying, and Jorge is trying to comfort her. I turn my back to the window to give them privacy.

Seconds later, we're called back into the room. Sona still looks worried, but Jorge says, "Let's do it."

"Alright," Derek agrees, his face solemn. "I'll try my best." He turns to Meredith and I. "Jorge and Sona want the surgery."

"They want you to cut it out?" Meredith presses, and Derek nods.

I look at Jorge and Sona as if to question them, but stop myself.

Their decision has been made.

I wish there were a rulebook for intimacy. Some kind of guide that could tell you when you've crossed the line. It would be nice if you could see it coming. And I don't know how you fit it on a map. You take it where you can get it. And keep it as long as you can. And as for rules?

Maybe there are none.

Maybe the rules of intimacy are something you have to define for yourself.


	5. Episode 5: Shake Your Groove Thing

**Song selection: "High School Never Ends"~ Bowling For Soup**

Episode 5

 _Shake Your Groove Thing_

The observation deck buzzes with usual intern chatter. A heart surgery is being performed by Dr. Burke and Meredith on a patient in the room below, and we all stare down at the procedure with a mixture of longing and awe. The patient's beating heart is visible through the open wound in his chest. A live, beating, human heart. The heart pumps and throbs in sync with every heartbeat.

"I wish I could hold a heart," George says wistfully, his gaze not moving from the unconscious patient.

"A monkey could hold a heart," Cristina says dryly, wrinkling her nose in disdain.

George looks at Cristina. "You're mad Burke didn't pick you."

Cristina says nothing, instead pinching her face up as if she's tasted something sour.

"George, I need more ice and chips," Izzie says, plopping down next to him.

"Who else did you invite?" George sounds miffed.

"Izzie, we said the jocks only," Cristina reminds Izzie. "Surgery, trauma, plastics. Who else?"

Izzie shrugs. "Just some people from peds."

"You invited the preschoolers to Meredith's house," Cristina says incredulously. "The next thing you'll say is you invited the shrinks."

Izzie looks away, her facial expression unreadable.

"She invited mental defects." Cristina shakes her head. "This party's DOA."

"You know, Meredith thinks that this is just going to be a little small, meet-your-boyfriend cocktail thing," George points out tentatively. "Did you clear this with her?"

"No, but I will," Izzie replies, and Cristina shoots her a doubtful look. "I promise."

I'm clearly not apart of this conversation, so I continue watching the heart surgery in silence. Dr. Burke is holding the still-beating heart gently in his palms, and I wonder what it must be like to hold an actual, live human being's heart in your hands. To have their literal life in your hands. Thrilling? Exciting? Inspiring? Terror-inducing? All of the above?

"Why are you wasting the only weekend your boyfriend's in town on a big party?" Cristina asks Izzie. "Is he bad in bed?"

"No," Izzie chuckles. "I just wanted him to meet some of my friends."

"Right." Cristina scoffs. "Sixty geeks in scrubs are your friends." Her pager beeps, and she gets up to leave. "Bad sex, sucks for you," she says as she walks out the door.

Izzie shakes her head, then looks at me. "Do you want to come, Les?"

My attention snaps from the surgery to Izzie. "Huh?"

"Well, I'm inviting all my friends," Izzie says with a shrug. "And I thought you'd like to come along."

"Well…" I hesitate, already feeling like I'm intruding on the conversation despite literally being invited in.

"You can't say no," Izzie reminds me. "Every Friday. You promised, remember?"

Unfortunately. "Okay, fine," I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose between both of my index fingers. I can already feel a headache coming on. "I'll come."

Izzie beams at me like I just told her she's won the lottery. "Really? You're amazing! Thank you!" I think she's going to hug me.

What have I just done?

Alex slides in between Izzie and George. "I heard there was a party tonight at Meredith's?"

Izzie stares down at the surgery. "Uh, news to me," she lies, refusing to look at Alex.

"No party," George agrees quickly, also not looking at Alex.

I sigh.

"What do you see, George?"

George stares at the black-and-white X-Ray in front of us. "Hyper-inflated lungs, clouded with bullae, seriously diminished capacity," he observes. "She must be having trouble breathing."

Dr. Bailey nods approvingly. "Course of action?"

"A bullectomy procedure," George replies. "Remove the bullae, reduce the pressure."

Webber glances at the white papers in his hands. "Says here we operated her back in '99," he remarks, pointing to something on the paper, "so Mrs. Drake has been through this before, but talk her through it anyway. And resist the anti-smoking lecture; she feels bad enough already." Webber walks away.

George comes to Dr. Bailey's side. "So you think if they put pictures of these on a pack of cigarettes, people would stop smoking?"

"Absolutely not," I say, narrowing my eyes at him.

Dr. Bailey looks at George and shakes her head.

George looks at me. "Coming?"

"Yeah." I nod, following him out of the room as he walks out.

We locate Mrs. Drake's room, where a middle-aged, tired-looking woman is sitting in a wheelchair, staring blankly into the distance with her hands folded on her lap.

"Knock knock." I rap my knuckles on the door twice. Nurses usually walk into patient's rooms without asking permission, but I at least like to give patients some sense of privacy. Some of them are dying or are about to be told that they're dying. It's the least I can do.

"The surgery before was supposed to help," Mrs. Drake says, cutting straight to the chase, "but it never felt right." Her voice is coarse and gravelly, worn by years of smoking. She looks nervous, so I grab a blanket off of the counter and tuck her in.

"Thank you, dear." She smiles at me gratefully, but then her face crumbles with worry again.

"Probably would have been a good idea to stop smoking," George remarks, and I stamp down on his foot. He winces, glaring at me while rubbing his offended foot.

Mrs. Drake scoffs. "It didn't do any damn good," she says bitterly.

"Really?" George raises his eyebrows. "Because it looked- I mean, from the damage- We all thought you probably still smoking."

"Cold turkey," says Mrs. Drake flatly. "Five years ago. What do I get for my trouble? I still had to quit my job at the restaurant. But even sitting, it hurt." She's getting agitated, so I adjust her pillow, and she sinks back into it.

"Nobody believed me," Mrs. Drake mutters hopelessly, sighing. "They said it was all in my head."

"We've seen the films," George tells her. "It's not all in your head."

"There's definitely damage there," I tell her softly, squeezing her shoulder, "but we're doing everything in our power to fix it, okay?"

Mrs. Drake nods, although she looks like she doesn't believe me. "You're right about that," she says to George, then adds, "Hey, come here." George leans closer, and she lowers her voice to a whisper. "You two are too damn young to be doctors."

I raise my eyebrows.

"Hey." George sounds offended.

"What?" Mrs. Drake narrows her eyes.

"We're older than we look," I reassure her, patting her shoulder.

Another nurse comes in and turns the wheelchair to the door.

Mrs. Drake glances over her shoulder at us. "Do you think it's going to work this time?" She smiles, and her voice is so hopeful that if there were bad news, I'm not sure if I could break it to her.

George smiles thinly. "I think it's your best option."

Mrs. Drake chuckles. "Straight-shooter, huh?"

"Yes, ma'am," George replies, as polite as ever.

Mrs. Drake's grin doesn't fade. "I like that," she says as the nurse wheels her into the hallway, disappearing from the glass windows.

Once she's out of earshot, I turn to George and say, "Don't ever tell addicts that they should stop smoking."

George blinks at me. "Why not?"

"Because they already know they should," I hiss. "They already feel shitty enough. Why worsen the situation?"

George nods slowly. "O...okay."

George, Cristina, and I follow Dr. Webber and Dr. Bailey down the hallway an hour later. Dr. Webber tells that they found a towel in Mrs. Drake's chest during the surgery.

"A towel?" I repeat incredulously, raising my eyebrows. "What do you mean, a towel?"

"Exactly what I said," Webber states matter-of-factly. "Not good."

"She complained about pressure on her chest," George chimes in. "Said nobody took her seriously."

"Not good for the patient, not good for the hospital," Webber murmurs, sighing. "Not good."

"Cristina, hit the files," Dr. Bailey orders, and Cristina nods. "Find out everything you can about that initial operation. Who was in that room, who was responsible for closing. George and Leslie, you stay with the patient. She seems to like you two."

"Right, okay, um…" George stammers, hesitating. "How long do you think? I mean, just technically I'm off at six."

"Same," I add, dreading staying an extra hour.

Dr. Bailey looks at George. "Am I invited?"

George stares at her. "Excuse me?"

Dr. Bailey raises her eyebrows. "Am I invited to the party?"

George looks at me helplessly, and I mouth, "Say yes."

"Oh!" George looks at Dr. Bailey, stumbling over his words. "You, well, yeah. Yes. Yeah. Of course."

Dr. Bailey nods and walks away.

Cristina glares at George, obviously unhappy.

"What was I supposed to say?" George defends himself.

Cristina drops her hands to her sides. "Ugh!" she huffs in annoyance, brushing past George and storming off.

I turn to George, who's still staring at the now-empty space where Cristina once was. "So, how are we going to tell Mrs. Drake that there was a towel in her chest?"

"Exactly what you said," George replies, regaining his composure. "That there was a towel in her chest."

"Sure, like that'll go over well," I retort dryly.

George shrugs. "You never know."

I sigh and groan, rubbing my head with my fingers and putting my head in my hands.

It appears as though our job is already done, because as soon as George and I are finished reciting how we're going to break the news to Mrs. Drake as we walk into her room, she speaks up from her bed, "...told me I had a towel inside me."

"Who told you that?" George asks as we come to the side of Mrs. Drake's bed. She's lying under the sheets, her face pale and tired. She's hooked up to several machines, including one monitoring her heart rate, which sounds and looks to be steady and normal.

"A surgeon." Her speech is slightly slurred, and I assume the anesthesia is still wearing off. "Uh, older man. Handsome."

"That's Dr. Webber," George tells her. "He's our chief."

"Yeah," Mrs. Drake murmurs huskily. "It was a towel that somebody left last time."

"Yes, ma'am," George confirms lightly.

"You mean, the towel was left in your chest after the surgery?" I ask, and Mrs. Drake nods groggily.

"Who would do that?" Her voice cracks. "That doesn't seem right, does it?"

"No, it isn't right," I say softly. "Not at all." Somebody was clearly careless and forgot the most important part of the operation- checking over everything before sewing and stitching up.

"I was walking around with a towel inside of me," Mrs. Drake marvels, sounding amazed. "How could that happen?"

"I know this must be quite a shock, Mrs. Drake," I tell her gently, "but you need to get your rest. Once you're all healed up, we'll tell you everything you need to know, okay?" That'll give her some peace of mind, at least.

Mrs. Drake nods silently, shutting her eyes and resting her head on the pillow, the room now cold and silent.

George stares at Meredith in shock. "You got called before the chief?"

"Tomorrow morning." Meredith's anxiety is intense. "I could get kicked out of the program." She glances around at each of us. "I could, right?"

"You're not getting kicked out," George reassures her.

"Patterson's just going to sue," Cristina adds bluntly.

"Patterson is not going to sue," George tells Meredith when a flicker of panic flashes across her face, "and you're not going to get kicked out of the program."

"What the hell were you thinking?" Cristina tsks, shaking her head. "Telling Burke. So stupid…"

"Am I missing something here?" I ask, and everyone looks at me. "Because it seems like I'm missing something."

Meredith sighs. "I told Burke that I accidentally popped my glove during a surgery," she admits, hanging her head in shame. Her phone rings. "I gotta take this." She glances around from George to Cristina, and then me. "Thanks. Thank you. Very comforting." She opens her phone, holding it to her ear, and walks away.

"I'll watch your books," George volunteers, pulling Meredith's textbooks closer to him.

Izzie arrives with coffee, a banana, and water in hand. She passes it around to everyone, giving me a muffin. George takes the pudding and water bottle.

"You're a lifesaver," I say gratefully, biting into the muffin. "You're officially my hero."

Izzie smiles and sits down on the floor. "Okay, so the beer's coming at seven," she announces, "and some of the floor nurses are bringing wine."

"You invited nurses?" Cristina wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Ugh."

"Did you clear this up with Meredith?" George asks warily.

My eyebrows furrow. "What does everyone have against nurses?"

"A few more people isn't going to make a difference," Izzie sighs in frustration, her voice defensive. "A party's a party. Okay?"

Cristina smirks. "And the bigger the party, the less time for bad sex with a hockey player."

"Would you stop saying that?" Izzie snaps, annoyed.

"Okay," Cristina says doubtfully, shrugging.

"Hank and I have great sex," Izzie says loudly.

"Mhmm," Cristina hums dryly.

"All the time," Izzie insists.

"Mhmm," Cristina repeats.

"In fact," Izzie continues, "we'll probably have sex after the party. Or during the party."

"Nice," I remark, and George says, "As long as you clear it with Meredith."

I shoot George a look. "Does everything need to be cleared up with Meredith?"

"It's her party," George shrugs.

"Hank just needs to realize that doctors can have fun," Izzie states matter-of-factly. "We're not all work-aholics with God complexes."

"We are _all_ work-aholics with God complexes," Cristina counters.

Izzie glares at Cristina.

George shows her an inflated glove puppet with a drawn-on smiley face.

Izzie, Cristina and I are in the reception area when George comes jogging in. "You paged me?" he inquires, coming to Izzie's side.

"I'm gonna be awhile," Izzie tells him. "Do you think you could get home to sign for the beer?"

Alex comes sauntering up behind Izzie. "Why don't you have your boyfriend sign for it?" he remarks, smirking arrogantly at her.

Izzie jumps. "You have a very annoying way of sneaking up on people," she says, turning around. "Maybe if you were a little less creepy about it."

"Do you have anything better to do besides harassing innocent girls?" I scowl at him. "Seriously, it's creepy. You're a borderline stalker."

Alex ignores me. "I wouldn't come anyway," he says cheerfully. "I hate big parties."

"Go away," I tell him, but he doesn't leave.

George looks at Izzie. "Is Meredith the only person in the hospital who doesn't know the size of this thing?"

"I'm telling her," Izzie replies.

"You can't," Cristina says. "She's gone."

Izzie turns to Cristina. "What? Already?"

"I think she had- excuse me," Cristina says, turning to go, "an errand to run." She walks away.

Izzie turns back to George. "You don't think Meredith's really going to mind about the party, right?"

"I want you to make it very clear to her," George says sternly, "that I had nothing to do with this party. Nothing."

He walks off, leaving Izzie and I the only ones standing.

There is already loud music blaring from inside Meredith's house as soon as I pull up to the driveway. Rows of cars are lining the sidewalk. It looks like a high school party.

I exhale heavily. "Great," I mutter, rubbing my forehead. I want so desperately to back out. But I don't want to betray Izzie; I promised her I would come.

I take a deep breath and step out of the car, walking down the driveway and up the steps to Meredith's house. I open the front door and walk in. It's already packed, the hallways filled with people dancing with cups (probably filled with alcohol) in their hands. I already have a headache.

George comes up to me, a large tequila bottle in hand. "Hey," he yells to be heard over the music. "You're here."

I force a smile. "I came out of obligation."

"You and me both," George says. "Wanna bail?"

The door opens again, and Meredith storms in. A drunk guy hands her a Tiffany-style lamp. She unplugs it and tucks it under her arm."Where is Izzie!?" she demands, her anger evident.

George looks at her innocently. "Izzie has a lot of friends."

"No shit," I say, looking around. "It's like a debutante ball in here. God."

We continue pushing our way through the crowd, Meredith still carrying the lamp.

"You have a Tiffany lamp?" I remark, glancing at the lamp in her hand. "Holy shit."

"Izzie does not have this many friends," Meredith snaps, glowering.

George shrugs. "I told her to clear it with you."

"I can't handle this." Meredith is on the verge of a total meltdown. I can feel my own anxiety skyrocketing. I knew I should have stayed home today.

"You want me to kick everyone out?" George looks at her. "I can't kick everyone out."

We turn to see Cristina swaying and dancing, clearly drunk. "Baby!" she slurs, putting her arms around me. "You made it. Woo!"

I pry her arms off me and back away awkwardly.

"Screw it." Meredith shoves the lamp at George. "Hold this. And give me this." She takes the tequila bottle from George, then goes over to Cristina and joins the dancing and drinking.

"Hi, baby!" Cristina crowes, hugging Meredith and swaying back and forth with her to the music.

"George!" Cristina yells, looking up over Meredith's shoulder. "George, come here! You too, Les."

"No thanks," I tell her. "I don't dance."

"What do you mean, you don't dance?" George looks at me, almost in alarm. "Everyone dances."

I shake my head. "Not me."

"Well, now you do." George grabs my arm and pulls me toward Meredith and Cristina.

"No no no," I protest, struggling to pull out of his grip, which only tightens.

"You don't have a choice," George insists, stepping in next to Meredith and Cristina and taking me with him. "If you're friends with us, you have to dance. It's not optional."

Meredith hands him the bottle, and he takes a long swig and begins dancing between Meredith and Cristina.

"Just dance!" he yells at me, glancing over his shoulder.

"I don't know how," I whimper, shaking my head. My headache has intensified.

"Here, like this." George takes my arm and begins dancing. "It doesn't have to be serious. Just let loose and have fun."

"Let loose and have fun," I repeat, beginning to move a little. "Okay." I begin sashaying back and forth, wiggling my hips to the beat.

Meredith and Cristina cheer. "Yeaaah!" Cristina yells. "You've got it, baby! You go, girl!"

We tire out after awhile of dancing and drinking, and decide to sit down and play a game of cards.

"Why did we decide to become surgeons, anyway?" Meredith ponders, taking a swig of her drink.

"Surgery," George answers, shuffling cards, "is very serious business."

Cristina, who has two cards plastered to her face, burps loudly, then giggles.

Cristina laughs evilly. "Royal flush," she squeals, her words slurring. "Get naked, baby boy. Sexy!" She peels the cards off her face and throws them down on the pile.

George sighs and reluctantly begins to remove his shirt.

"Surgery is stupid," Meredith mutters to no one in particular. "It's stupid. It's stupid."

"Give me that." Cristina reaches for the bottle in Meredith's hand. "You're drunk."

"Pot, the kettle is black," I remark, and George laughs loudly.

"I'm not driving." Meredith pulls the bottle out of Cristina's reach. "I'm not on call. I'm in my own house. And it's my party and I'll get drunk if I want to."

"Technically, it's Izzie's party," I point out as George finally manages to get his shirt off. He's pretty skinny. Skinny, but cute. He has great abs.

"Shut up," Cristina tells me.

"You're drunk," I retort.

"We still need to get you drunk," Cristina says.

"No thank you."

"You," Cristina says accusingly, pointing her finger at me, "are going to get drunk by the end of the night. It's not negotiable."

"Five bucks says she doesn't," George chimes in.

"Five bucks says she does," Cristina replies.

I glance at George, then at Cristina. "Uh, do I get a say in this?"

"No!" George and Cristina say in unison.

A man with short-cropped hair and stubble on his chin walks by, pausing to look at us. "Is, um, Izzie Stevens…?" he questions hesitantly, glancing around the room.

"Oh, you must be Hank." Cristina laughs, standing. "He's very large and hockey-like. No, Izzie's not here right now."

"Hockey-like?" I echo, raising my eyebrows at her.

Cristina leaves the room, stumbling slightly as she walks.

"You and Izzie will give birth to very tall, blonde people," George comments, looking Hank up and down. "Like Barbies."

I burst out laughing.

"Izzie said she was going to be home," Hank says, shifting his weight, and I wonder if all the drunkness is making him uncomfortable.

"She didn't say there was going to be a party."

"Don't know," Meredith says. "But we're low on ice, Hank."

Hank looks annoyed. "I'm serious."

"So am I," Meredith replies cheerfully. "We're interns, Hank. The hospital owns us. It's what we do."

Hank smiles awkwardly and leaves the room.

"Bye," George calls after him.

"Nice to meet you!" Meredith adds, loudly.

"You guys are so drunk," I say, amused.

"And you will be too, in a few minutes." George hands me the tequila bottle. "Just drink," he says when I begin protesting.

"Fine." I sigh and roll my eyes, taking a sip. "But you owe me one."

"Drink! Drink! Drink!" George and Meredith chant as I gulp down the entire bottle in one swig. "Yeah!" George high-fives me. "Want another one?"

"Hit me," I say, and he hands me another bottle. I down that one within seconds. And, only minutes later, am I full-fledged drunk. I feel like I'm walking on air, like I can do anything, and it's the best feeling I've ever experienced.

"Hey, George," I slur, leaning against him, "guess what?"

He looks at me. "What?"

"I'm drunk," I whisper, then erupt into a fit of giggles.

"I can see that," George says flatly, pushing me away.

"I am, like, so drunk," I continue. "It's great. Did you know being drunk is great? I didn't know it would be this great. Thank you guys sooo much." I burst into giggles again, covering my face with my hands and falling onto the floor on my back. "You know, I really love you guys," I hum in a sing-songy voice. "You know that, right? You guys are great, really. Like, honestly…" My voice begins to get smaller, and, eventually, my world fades to black.

The first thing I wake up to is a splitting headache.

I open my eyes slowly, to a blurry world. "Where am I?" I groan, my voice slurred. I feel like a lightning bolt sliced through my head.

"Meredith's house," a familiar voice says, and I look up to see George standing in front of me, holding a glass of ice water. "Here," he says, handing me the glass. I take it from him and sip gratefully, relishing the cool water running down my dry throat. "What happened last night?" I ask, wincing and setting the glass on the floor beside the couch.

"You were pretty drunk," George says, and I blush, my entire face warm. "No, no, you didn't do or say anything, I promise. You were just...a happy drunk."

"That's relieving, I guess," I decide after a beat, then pick up the glass and sucking down the rest of the water. I feel bile beginning to rise in my throat, my palms sweating and eyes running. "Oh shit," I say, my stomach lurching.

"Oh shit," George repeats, his eyes widening, then runs to the kitchen and returns with a large bowl. "H-"

I lean over the couch and barf into the bowl noisily no more than seconds later, getting some in my hair and on my chin. "Shit," I say, breathing heavily and gasping for air. My body tremors, a shudder running through me. "Oh, God. This is so embarrassing." I know I'll never let this one down.

"No worries," George says cheerfully. "It happens to the best of us." He looks at me. "You through?"

"I think s-" I throw up again just as I get the words out.

"Nice," George remarks as another shudder runs through me.

I slowly get up, my world swaying. "I need a shower," I mumble, rubbing my head.

"I'll show you where it is." George leads me to the bathroom, and I thank him before closing the door and locking it. I peel off my clothing and turn on the shower knob to hot, stepping under the water.

As the warm water runs down my back, I realize that, despite today's hangover and embarrassment, last night was the best night of my life.


End file.
